Marriage and Murder

by Penny Reid

  “I don’t want to talk about the—the stupid camera.” She leaned forward, slipping off the chair until we were both kneeling, her hands now on my shoulders. “I was trying to be strong when all I really wanted to do was talk to you. I should’ve found a way, and I’m sure there were so many ways, but I didn’t want to—to—”

  “What?”

  “Be the weak link.”

  “The what?”

  “You’re so good at being sneaky. I figured, this whole time, you needed me to sit tight and follow your lead.” I felt her stiffen abruptly, lean back. “Wait a minute. You are trying to figure out who murdered my father, right?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Oh. Good.” She breathed a sigh that sounded relieved. “I assumed you were. I also assumed other things, obviously wrongly, so . . .”

  Assuming. That was the problem. We’d both been assuming. I’d assumed she wanted space to work through grief, she’d assumed I had some masterplan. I did have a masterplan of course, but not inclusive of all the details she’d been privy to and I had not. If we’d talked prior to now, then maybe Kip’s murder would be solved, Diane would be back at work—assuming she wasn’t the murderer… another assumption—and we’d be having sex with the lights on.

  “I need to be honest with you, Jenn.” I sat back on the floor and encouraged her to straddle me. As she settled, I continued, “I assumed you were going through a tough time and needed space.”

  The side of her mouth quirked up. “I am going through a tough time, but I don’t need space. Not from you.”

  “Then I shall give you no space.” I kissed her nose, allayed. “Tell me what’s been on your mind. Tell me everything.”

  “I guess . . .” Her smile soft, her gaze lost focus and drifted downward. “I’ve been really confused about everything. I meant what I said at the police station, I don’t know what I’m feeling. I love my parents. I still love my father. Isn't that awful? Florence McClure is right. He was a bad man.”

  “I don't think it's awful that you love your dad.”

  She continued as though I hadn't spoken. “I mean, he treated everyone so terribly. He treated Isaac terribly, my momma terribly, me terribly.”

  Or maybe she hadn’t heard me, and that was fine. I took it as a sign to simply listen. I missed her voice, so I was happy to oblige.

  “I have good memories of him and the pictures to prove it,” she said, sounding defensive. Jenn bit her thumbnail, her brow stern. A second later, her forehead smoothed, and she said sadly, “Actually, no I don’t. I have a few pictures of us together when I was real little and we’re both smiling. But I was always on my momma’s lap. That’s what I have.”

  I rubbed her back, my hands moving under the fabric of her T-shirt.

  “But I have to believe, in his own way, in the way he was capable of, he loved me too. Right?” Her eyes came back to mine, searching. When I said nothing, she seemed to deflate. “I know what you’re going to say. Not all love is created equal. And my definition of love never matched his, and vice versa.”

  I swallowed the impulse to point out that Kip’s definition of love didn’t even resemble apathy.

  “So”—she lifted her chin stubbornly even as it wavered—“I'm not sad that he's dead. I guess.” Her voice cracked and she swiped at new tears. “But I am sad. And I feel guilty about how little sadness I feel. But I am sad. I'm sad because a person lost their life before they chose the righteous path, before they chose the path of love over selfishness. And that makes me really sad. Because I do believe in heaven and hell, and given the way he behaved even to the end—” Jennifer covered her face and cried softly.

  I pulled her into a hug, my mouth sour.

  The underlying difference between us could be summed up by her reaction to her father's death. Here she was, sad because she believed her father was in hell, and she didn’t want anyone to go to hell. Now, here I was, also believing in a heaven and hell, and content in the knowledge that folks like Kip went to the latter.

  See the difference?

  She wanted everybody to reform and do better, make better choices, make reparations, and make amends. She found peace in the idea of redemption. Whereas I found peace in the idea of someone like Kip Sylvester suffering through the perpetual anguish of a fiery eternity. Basically, she was New Testament, I was Old Testament, and we cohabitated in the biblical sense—figuratively and literally.

  I wondered if, fundamentally, the world was made up of people who either sought justice at the expense of redemption, or those who sought redemption at the expense of justice. To be honest, I was always a little bit disappointed when people reformed. Watching a bad person choose the straight and narrow path was the deus ex machina of real life.

  . . . Except Jethro, of course. But Jet wasn’t ever really all that bad.

  No. He was bad. He hurt people.

  I frowned, severely, not liking that my empirical experience—how my brother had reformed, and we were all happier and better for it—undercut my thirst for justice being served in the general population. Well, I supposed that made me ordinary. Folks like it when justice applies to other people, but always think it’s unfair when applied to them.

  Moving on.

  I continued rubbing her back, hoping she drew comfort from my hands on her skin like I drew comfort from the feel of her in my arms. I should’ve made her talk to me before now, and not just for us to compare notes about police surveillance. She needed to talk about what she’d been going through. I didn’t completely understand her perspective, but she needed me. I knew she wasn't okay, asking her if she was okay would be a banal waste of words, which was why I’d resisted.

  But she obviously needed to talk. No more giving her space.

  Instead, inspired by Drew’s forthrightness earlier, I asked, “What can I do?”

  The sudden sound of my voice seemed to draw her out of whatever dark thoughts she’d ensconced herself within and pulled back, blinking several times, her tears dry. “Pardon?”

  I studied her gorgeous eyes. “What can I do? How can I help you?”

  “I . . .” She gave her head a subtle shake, like she had difficulty processing my question.

  Hmm.

  Anxious for action, I decided to make a list of obvious tasks that would or might help, starting with us sleeping at the homestead instead of her place. Then I’d hold her to ensure she continued to feel safe by getting rid of those cameras. And then—then—

  Damn.

  Beyond that, I needed instructions. If I were expected to be adequately prepared to see to Jenn’s needs over the next several days, weeks, years, and the rest of our shared life, I required feedback. This was the main issue with loving someone and respecting their wishes.

  I loved my family plenty, but I didn’t always respect their wishes, seeing as how they were prone to having dumb, self-destructive wishes. Take Billy, for instance. He wanted me to let his tragic-as-of-now past with Scarlet (Claire) St. Claire (McClure) go. That’s what he said he wished.

  I would let their past go the same day he did, which meant never.

  “I want us to talk. I need to talk to you. If they’re bugging the house, fine, whatever. But we need to find a way to communicate.”

  “Already on it. Next.”

  “I want you to help me find the killer.”

  “As I’ve said, I’ve started looking. I’m not happy about that camera being in the house, but it might give me a new lead. I want to be certain the police catch the real killer, not that I don’t have faith in the sheriff, but sometimes the police only go where evidence leads.”

  “And you don’t go where evidence leads?” She shifted on my lap, like she was getting more comfortable.

  “Evidence is important, but evidence can be placed in an attempt at misdirection.” I’d done a fair share of planting evidence, I knew what to look for when determining whether evidence had been planted purposefully or left by mistake. “It’s not just the evidence itse
lf that’s important, it’s the very existence of the evidence that must be questioned.”

  “Give me an example.”

  “All murderers seek to conceal vital evidence when planning a murder unless it’s a crime of passion, done without any planning or forethought. We’re going to assume that your father’s death was not a crime of passion.”

  “Okay, yes. Makes sense. I feel like this is obvious.”

  “It should be. But in a planned murder, like your father’s, when critical evidence is found easily and has fingerprints that implicate a suspect—like the murder weapon—you have to ask yourself two questions: First, is the suspect implicated a moron? If not, then you can assume that evidence was planted with their fingerprints.”

  “Right. Of course. Again, I feel like this is obvious.”

  “It is, but the police have to follow the evidence. A murder weapon with fingerprints is easily found and points to a suspect, that suspect is now the primary suspect—call that person suspect A—for the police. Because they have to prove a person is guilty to a jury.”

  “Are juries that stupid?” She made a face. It was cute and made me smile.

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying.” Unable and unwilling to stop myself, I brushed my lips against hers before leaning back. “It’s about the trial, getting a guilty verdict, not always about convicting the guilty. If suspect B really committed the murder and the police put suspect B on trial, but the murder weapon has suspect A’s fingerprints, then how’s that gonna look to a jury? It’s going to give them reasonable doubt to acquit suspect B. Even if the police have additional evidence suggesting that suspect B planted the murder weapon with suspect A’s fingerprints, the doubt will linger.”

  Jenn trailed her nails down the front of my shirt. “Okay, I see what you mean.”

  “However, we’re not the legal system. You and I, we don’t need to care about the burden of reasonable doubt.”

  She marinated in that statement for a bit before saying, “At the same time, I don’t want to become one of those obsessed zealots who decide a person is guilty, looking for evidence after the fact. I get what you’re saying, but we need to follow the evidence too. We need to keep an open mind and not jump to conclusions based on who we’d like to be guilty.”

  I gripped her hips tighter as her fingers slipped under the hem of my shirt, her knuckles brushing against my stomach. But I couldn’t be distracted by her touch. The time had come.

  Carefully schooling my expression and my tone, I said, “Or who we’d like to be innocent.”

  “What do you mean?” She lifted my shirt higher, taking a greedy eyeful of my stomach and chest, and I felt myself lengthen, harden beneath where she sat. It’d been so long since I’d seen her body. I missed—no, I needed.

  Nope! Do not veer off course. Do not be distracted by her sexy shenanigans.

  “Just that—” I caught her hands before she could wreak any more havoc “—part of keeping an open mind is being open to all possibilities, even ones that are inconvenient. Or painful.”

  Her gaze lifted, scrutinizing, suspicious. “Cletus.”

  “Jenn.” Okay, well, here we go.

  “What are you not telling me?”

  Chapter Nine

  *Cletus*

  “The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off.”

  Joe Klaas, Twelve Steps to Happiness

  “No. No, no, no. No.”

  I’d told her almost everything, and she’d handled it remarkably well until—

  “You’ve got to be pulling my leg. Repo? The one who kidnapped Jess and Claire?”

  “He didn’t. That was—”

  “The one who tried to get Duane and Beau to run their chop shop?”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “How’d you know about that?”

  “No way.” She scrambled off my lap, standing, pacing back and forth in the office like it was a cage.

  As soon as I’d mentioned that Repo had been the one with her momma in the kitchen, she’d—excuse the technical term—lost her shit. She was no longer handling it well.

  “I’m telling you what I know to be true.”

  “No!” She stopped at the bag I’d brought, picked it up, set it on the desk and unzipped it. Her movements were angry and perfunctory. “There’s no way my mother did this and there is no way my mother would be with that man. No.”

  “I’m not saying she killed your father.” I stood and crossed to stand behind her. “I’m relating what I saw, what Jackson told me that night, and—”

  “Did you tell Jackson?” She spun, shoving the black dress I’d packed for her at my chest. “About my momma being in the kitchen with Repo?”

  “No. I didn’t lie. I said it was dark.”

  “Ah ha! It was dark! So maybe you mis-saw? Maybe it wasn’t her?”

  I scratched the back of my neck. “It actually wasn’t that dark.”

  “Cletus!”

  “I’m not going to apologize for telling you the truth, but I am sorry this is the truth.”

  She frowned. It was a big one.

  I sallied forth, determined to settle this. “And I apologize for keeping it a secret for so long.”

  She waved this apology away like it was a gnat, with a distracted flick of her wrist. “No. Don’t apologize for that. I’m glad you did, seeing as how some weirdo is recording everything we do at the house. I felt better thinking it was the police, to be honest.” She shivered, like the thought of a stranger watching and listening to us gave her the heebie-jeebies.

  Honestly, it gave me the heebie-jeebies too. The second we were back in the car, I’d message Alex using our secure mechanism and ask him for help resolving the issue, starting tonight, if possible.

  “You’re sure it was her? Absolutely sure?” Her voice sounded pleading, like maybe by asking nicely I’d give her a different answer.

  “Yes. Your mother and Repo came into the kitchen. He turned on the sink faucet for her and went through cabinets while she washed her hands. Jackson banged on the back door, they left through the front. That’s what I saw.”

  “I just . . . she wouldn’t.” Jenn lowered her hand holding the dress, her attention now on the article of clothing. She shook it out. “She wouldn’t.”

  “For what it’s worth, I don’t think she killed your father. Who shoots someone through a window, opens the car door, puts their hand in the victim’s blood, touches their victim’s face, and smears blood on the car after? No. Your momma isn’t that dumb.”

  Jenn nodded, her gaze still affixed to the dress. “We have to ask her.”

  “I . . . agree.”

  “What?” She peered at me, another inspection. She must’ve heard the hesitancy in my voice. “Is there something else?”

  “Did you know your mother has been seeing Repo since Christmas?”

  “What?!”

  “I confirmed it the morning after the murder, with one of my contacts at the Dragon.”

  Jenn took a step back, staring at nothing. I pushed my hands into my pockets and waited.

  “How long have you known?”

  “The morning after the murder. Before that, I had no idea. After I saw them together in the kitchen, I . . . well, it was a surprise. I couldn’t figure out what they’d be doing together, so I called my contact and he told me.”

  “Oh my God.” Jenn pressed her fingertips to her forehead and stared at the carpet. “That must be the guy.”

  “What guy?”

  “Not last Christmas, but the one before—” she shook her head quickly, grimacing “—I found my momma the day after Christmas at her house, hungover and crying. She told me she’d had a one-night stand with someone at the Dragon, a biker. But she never told me who. And now they’re together? She made it sound like a one-time thing.”

  “Looks like that first time was a one-time thing, until a few months ago.”

  Her hand fell to her thigh with a smack. “So the whole Iron Wraiths motorcycle club knows my mothe
r has been—is involved with this Mr. Repo and she didn’t say anything to me?”

  “No. Not at all. My contact is in a delicate position, one that sees folks come and go and has the opportunity to track them unobserved. He thinks—believes—no one is aware of their relationship but him. They meet at a safe house only top members of the club know about.”

  “She’s sneaking around? With a—an Iron Wraith? With this reprobate?”

  I rolled my lips between my teeth to keep from smiling. She sounded just like her mother. I would not respond as I hypothesized Jennifer did not need, nor would she appreciate, my feedback at present.

  “I can’t believe her. I cannot believe her!” Jenn threw the black fabric to the desk and whipped off her shirt. She then reached for the dress again. “What is she thinking? Why would she do this?”

  “Maybe he makes her happy.” I let my attention linger on the bare skin of her back, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. The dress I’d packed wasn’t worn with a bra, and that had been a purposeful choice. “Maybe she loves him—”

  “What?” Her eyes cut to mine, hot, sharp as a knife. “You expect me to believe that my mother is in love with a criminal?”

  I braced my feet apart and met her glare steadily, uncertain whether it was worthwhile to have this conversation at all. Jenn could have her feelings about her mother’s love life, and I didn’t have anything to gain by encouraging Jenn to see things from Diane’s point of view. Why cause strife with my beloved when I truly did not care one way or the other who Diane chose to spend her evenings with?

  But a man had been murdered, Jennifer’s father. Diane was definitely the prime suspect. I surmised whoever (or whomever) watched Jenn and I were not the police, but I felt certain the police were the ones watching Diane all the time. Repo was a criminal, no denying that. As the money man for the club, he was a money launderer and a thief. Indirectly, he was also complicit in any number of crimes—drug dealing, smuggling, destruction of property, assault, murder, prostitution—you name it, his hands were covered in it.