Cut and Died

by Jeff Shelby

  He smiled as he opened the door. “You busy?”

  I shook my head. The only thing I was busy doing was suspecting my former boss and friend of twenty-plus years.

  He closed the door and stomped his feet on the mat, trying to shake the snow free from his work boots. He was dressed in jeans and his thick flannel jacket, but his head was uncovered and his cheeks were flushed from the cold.

  I half stood. “You want some coffee?”

  “Sure, if you have some.” He sat down at the table, and I poured him a mug from the pot and set it down in front of him.

  “So I heard your friend’s car was found,” he said, sipping his coffee.

  I felt a pang of guilt. It was silly to feel that way but I couldn’t help myself. It wasn’t as though I had purposely opted to not share the information.

  The muffin I’d been holding was still on the table and I picked it back up. “Yes, yesterday afternoon,” I said.

  “Out at Tim’s place?”

  I nodded.

  Gunnar glanced at the muffin in my hand and I pushed the plastic bag toward him. “Have one.”

  He obliged, pulling out one of the larger ones and unwrapping the paper. “So Mack headed home?”

  I thought about the man still sleeping in the guest room upstairs. The man who Sheriff Lewis had accused of murder.

  The man who, even to someone who knew him well, had started to look a little suspicious.

  “Not yet,” I hedged.

  Gunnar frowned. “No? Something wrong with the car?”

  That was the most logical explanation as to why he wouldn’t be leaving, not the fact that he was suspected of committing a heinous crime.

  I bit back a sigh. There was no point in keeping it from Gunnar. For one, I had no reason to hide what was happening and two, he would probably find out through the gossip mill soon enough.

  “Sheriff Lewis confiscated his car.”

  Gunnar raised an eyebrow.

  I swallowed. “There was a body in the trunk.”

  Both eyebrows shot to his hairline. “A body?” he echoed.

  I nodded. “A woman. No visible signs of trauma, but no one knows how she ended up in Mack’s trunk. Mack included,” I added hastily.

  “Wow.” Gunnar took a deep breath and exhaled. Like me, he was still holding the muffin, uneaten. “Any idea who it was?”

  “Someone named Miranda.”

  “Miranda?” He thought for a minute. “Miranda Fielding?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t get a last name.”

  “Did you...” He swallowed. “Did you see her?”

  I nodded.

  Gunnar gazed down at the table. “Long blonde hair, late twenties...?” I could tell he was pulling up a mental image of her.

  It was my turn to swallow. “I think so, yes.” It suddenly felt different with Gunnar knowing the victim. “Did you know her?”

  It was his turn to nod. “Not well. She was a few years older than Jill, so they didn’t hang out together. Guess you could say I knew more of her. She was a cheerleader. Her dad, Phil, was an electrician. Widowed. He passed a few years back. She had some other family, I think related to his second wife, but I don’t know details.”

  “That’s terrible,” I said, referencing her dad’s death. I knew what it was like to be an adult without parents; it could make for a lonely existence. Knowing this about Miranda, and knowing we shared this, made her death feel even more tragic.

  “She was a good kid,” he said. He finally broke off a piece of the muffin and chewed it. “She didn’t deserve for this to happen to her. Any of this.”

  “No one knows what happened,” a steely voice said from the entrance to the kitchen.

  Mack was standing in the entryway, his dark hair unruly. Once again, he was clad only in his boxers. I realized then that I was still wearing my pajamas, and that I probably looked just as disheveled as he did. I hadn’t been expecting company when I’d sat down for my morning cup of coffee, and the effects of the two glasses of wine I’d had the night before had left me moving much slower than my usual morning pace.

  Mack eyed Gunnar as he strolled into the kitchen to get his own cup of coffee. He didn’t seem the list bit perplexed that he was walking around my kitchen in his underwear. In fact, he was acting like he owned the place, and it occurred to me that his behavior might be construed as owning something else, too.

  Me.

  “You sleep okay, Mack?” I asked. “The guest bed comfortable?”

  He shot me a look. “How do you think I slept? After being accused of murder?”

  I glanced at the table and said nothing.

  Gunnar just sat there, listening.

  “You haven’t been charged with anything,” I began, but Mack cut me off with a look and a wave of his hand.

  “Yet,” he said, his blue eyes blazing. “Yet. Because we all know what that asinine sheriff of yours is thinking.”

  I bristled. “He isn’t mine.” The last thing I was going to do was claim Sheriff Lewis. The town of Latney and Bueller County could keep him; I wanted nothing to do with him.

  Mack ignored my declaration. He leaned against the kitchen counter. “Well, I’m taking matters into my own hands.”

  “What? How?”

  He lifted his cup of coffee and took a long sip. “How do you think?”

  I stared at him. This was Mack Mercy we were talking about. I wouldn’t put anything past him.

  He waited for my answer and then when he realized one wasn’t coming, he rolled his eyes. “I’m going to clear my name. I’m going into this backwards town of yours and I’m going to figure out what the heck happened to that girl. And then I’m leaving and never coming back.”

  TWENTY

  “I’ll...I’ll be right back.”

  Mack had marched out of the kitchen and I’d been left sitting at the table with Gunnar. I stood up, my gaze darting from the empty entryway to the man still sitting with me.

  “I need to go talk to him,” I said to Gunnar. “He’s...he’s upset.”

  And irrational, I thought. I knew he wanted to hunt around for clues and start talking to people—he was an investigator, for crying out loud; it’s what he did for a living—but I also knew his current mood was not conducive to conducting a fair and impartial inquiry. In fact, I wasn’t sure he was ever going to reach that point since he was so intimately tied to the situation.

  “Sure, sure,” Gunnar said, nodding.

  I shoved the bag of muffins toward him. “Here, have some more. Eat all of them if you want.”

  I hurried out of the kitchen. Mack was in the living room, pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace.

  In his boxers.

  “Mack,” I said as I approached him.

  “Shh.” He held up his hand. “I’m thinking.”

  “I want to help,” I told him.

  He pivoted and headed the other direction. “I need to talk to the sheriff, figure out exactly what he knows. And I need to talk to that Tim kid, too.” His shoulders stiffened and I knew without seeing his face that he was probably scowling. “What is his connection to Miranda? When did he find the car?”

  I agreed. We did need the answers to a lot of those questions, and more. But I was worried about his technique, and how he might go about trying to get the answers.

  “I can help,” I said. “I want to.”

  He’d swiveled on his heel and was now heading back in my direction. “That’s nice of you but I need to do this on my own.”

  “You don’t know the people in this town,” I pointed out. “Or how they operate. I do.”

  I also was Public Enemy Number One, at least in the sheriff’s mind, and probably not someone he would willingly share information with, but I didn’t offer this to Mack.

  The truth was, I did want to help. And I did think I could be useful.

  He stared at me for a minute, his cup of coffee still in his hand, the other perched on his hip. If the situat
ion hadn’t been so serious, I would have burst out laughing. It was hard to take someone seriously when they were standing in the living room clad only in their underwear.

  “No offense, Rainy, but I need to do this on my own.” He puffed out his chest a little, which only made him look even more ridiculous.

  “Why?”

  He set his coffee down on the table. “Because I’m planning to do whatever it takes to clean up this mess and clear my name.”

  It was meant to sound threatening, tough, but I thought he just sounded ludicrous. Why turn down help when it was being offered?

  I didn’t have time to argue with him—or point out the stupidity of his reasoning—because a car rolled into the driveway.

  The sheriff’s car.

  Mack’s back was facing the window so he was oblivious to the visitor.

  And I wanted to keep it that way.

  “Fine,” I said, returning my attention to Mack. “If that’s the way you want to do it.”

  He nodded firmly. With his arms now folded across his chest and his legs slightly spread apart, his dark hair slightly wavy from lack of hair product, he looked a lot like an aging Superman.

  Especially the underwear part.

  “Why don’t you go get dressed?” I suggested. “Take a shower, even. Then you’ll be ready to start your...investigation.”

  I didn’t really care if he did either of those things. I just wanted him out of the living room as quickly as possible.

  Because I knew Sheriff Lewis was going to be knocking on the door soon.

  And I wanted to be the one to talk to him.

  The only one.

  TWENTY ONE

  Mack disappeared up the stairs just as Sheriff Lewis’s shoes landed on the front porch. I listened as he crossed the floor, then opened the door before he could knock.

  “Sheriff,” I said, my tone cool but not unfriendly. “How can I help you?”

  He was already scowling. “Have some questions.”

  I nodded. “Mack just went upstairs to shower.” I paused, trying to think of the best approach to take. “Perhaps we can schedule a time for him to come in and talk with you?”

  The sheriff’s frown deepened. “I’m not here to talk to Mack.”

  I blinked. I was not expecting this. “You’re not?”

  He shook his head, and his hat tilted to the side. He righted it. “I have some questions for you.”

  I pointed at myself. “For me?”

  He gave a brief nod. “Mind if I come in?”

  I did mind, and for multiple reasons. But I was still in my pajamas and the last thing I wanted to do was go stand out on the front porch in the cold.

  I stepped away from the door, granting entrance, and he hurried inside. I closed the door behind him.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked cautiously. If he was there to ask questions about Mack, I wasn’t sure how forthcoming I felt like being. The last thing I wanted to do was provide information for the sheriff to twist and turn in that warped brain of his.

  He unzipped the thick jacket he was wearing, revealing his white-button down that housed his trusty pipe in the left breast pocket. “Need to ask you about Miranda Fielding.”

  “Miranda?” I repeated. “Is she the woman Margaret was looking for? Is she that Miranda?”

  The sheriff sniffed. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  I rolled my eyes. He probably didn’t know.

  He pulled a notepad out of his jacket pocket and fished around next to his pipe, finally locating a pen. “What is your relationship to the deceased?”

  I stared at him. “My what?”

  “Your relationship,” he practically growled.

  “Uh...I didn’t have one with her,” I said, frowning.

  “You’re telling me you didn’t know her?” he said, and I could tell from his voice that he absolutely thought otherwise.

  “I did not know her,” I said firmly. “Why are you asking me?”

  He tapped his pen against the notepad. “Did you or did you not murder Miranda Fielding?”

  My mouth dropped open. “Are you serious?”

  He just glared back at me, waiting for my response.

  “Of course I didn’t kill her!”

  “You’re sure?”

  I didn’t think intentionally killing someone was a thing I’d forget easily, like when I’d last washed my sheets or if I’d remembered to pay for a magazine subscription.

  “Positive,” I said, returning his glare.

  He studied me for a moment, probably trying to find a way to figure out if I was lying.

  “How well do you know Mr. Mack Mercy?” he said, switching tactics.

  “I’ve known him for over twenty years,” I said. “I know him as well as I know my own family.”

  His pen flew across the pad. “So you’re close then.”

  I nodded.

  “Lovers?”

  “What?” I practically shrieked. “No, of course not. We worked together. He was my boss.”

  “That doesn’t mean you couldn’t be lovers,” the sheriff said. “Plenty of men sleep with their secretaries.”

  I stiffened. “I was not his secretary. I was his...office manager.”

  The sheriff made a face, as if he thought this was just some made up term to make women feel more important. He seemed like the kind of man who thought a woman’s place was in the home, or in a job where they took directions from a man.

  “Fine, office manager,” Sheriff Lewis said. His pen was tapping the pad again. “And you said you were close. Not enough to sleep with him, but you thought of him as family.”

  I nodded uneasily. I didn’t like where this was going.

  “Probably do anything for him, considering your relationship.”

  “Not anything.” I wouldn’t kill someone for him.

  The sheriff took a step toward me, his beady eyes narrowed. “Would you commit a crime for him? Or help him cover one up?”

  “Of course not!”

  “I don’t believe you,” he announced.

  “What a surprise,” I muttered under my breath. Louder, I said, “I did not help Mack conceal a crime. I am willing to attest to his character, if necessary, but I have no knowledge of any criminal activity.”

  “And if you would, you would tell me?” Sheriff Lewis asked.

  “Of course.”

  His eyes were fixed on me, and his moustache drooped as a scowl formed. “I wish I could believe you.”

  “I wish you could, too.” It was the truth.

  “Here’s the thing,” he said. The notepad disappeared back in his pocket, as did the pen he was holding. “You’ve lied to me before during a criminal investigation.”

  I stared at him blankly. “What?”

  “You heard me,” he snapped. When I still didn’t say anything he added, “The drugs.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about. My confusion must have registered on my face because he made a harrumphing sound and said, “The pick? Remember how you didn’t tell me about that piece of evidence? Evidence that would have led me to your son?”

  I could feel the blood drain from my face.

  The sheriff noticed. A grin of satisfaction blossomed on his face. “Seems pretty likely to me that if you’d break the law to protect your son, you’d do it for your boss, too. Especially since you consider him family.”

  I was still reeling from what he’d said. How on earth had Sheriff Lewis found out about the pick? The only two people who knew about it were Jill and Gunnar, and I didn’t think Jill would have volunteered any information to the sheriff. That left one person.

  “The person responsible for those drugs was found,” I reminded him. “And it wasn’t my son.” Those were indisputable facts.

  “But you had evidence you didn’t share,” he said.

  “That proved to be irrelevant,” I told him, doing my best to keep my voice calm and steady. But inside, I was a wreck. My heart was pounding, and it was h
ard to swallow. Because I knew that if the sheriff wanted to make an issue out of his accusation and what I had done, he probably could.

  I stood there, my back ramrod straight, my trembling hands clasped together so he wouldn’t notice them shaking.

  “A shame I can’t do anything about that,” he finally said.

  I blinked once, then again. I wasn’t a lawyer or a member of law enforcement, but I was pretty sure he could, in fact, do something about it if he wanted to bring me up on charges of obstruction of justice or tampering with evidence.

  “You tell that friend of yours he needs to visit me as soon as possible,” he said. “As for you...” His voice trailed off.

  I waited.

  “Your days as a free woman might be numbered if I find you had anything to do with this.”

  I didn’t say a word, just stared at him.

  “So you better not leave town, either.” His frown was back. “Just in case.”

  TWENTY TWO

  I marched back into the kitchen as soon as the sheriff left.

  Gunnar was still at the table, a steaming mug of coffee in front of him along with three empty muffin wrappers. His phone was on the table and he was scrolling through something when I walked in.

  He looked up. “Everything okay?”

  “No, everything is not okay,” I barked. I stalked toward the table, within a few feet of where he was sitting, and he watched my approach with mild surprise.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “You’re the one who should be answering that question.”

  His eyebrows lifted.

  “How did Sheriff Lewis know about the pick?” I demanded.

  Gunnar’s expression contorted into a frown. “What?”

  “The pick,” I repeated. “I told you about that in confidence and the sheriff just now accused me of hiding evidence.”

  I remembered the exact moment when I’d told Gunnar. It was the day after the showdown with the sheriff, when Jill confessed what she’d done and the sheriff had admitted that the drugs had been stolen out of his car, which made bringing charges against anyone a total impossibility. Gunnar had stopped by to thank me again, and we’d sat on the porch for a few minutes, watching the stars, the cold air turning our breath to frost. He’d been in a low place, worried about Jill, wracked with guilt over what he saw were the mistakes he’d made as a parent. I’d told him about the guilt I was wrestling with and mentioned the pick and how I’d actually considered my own son a suspect.