Cut and Died

by Jeff Shelby

  I nodded. All of those things were true.

  “But,” he began, and I stilled. I never liked his 'buts.' “Just because you’re not going anywhere doesn’t mean everyone else is staying put, too.”

  I instantly thought of Declan.

  “Whether physically or emotionally, people move on,” he said. “Because they have decisions to make, too.”

  He had no idea how fitting his words were.

  I nodded again.

  “The only deadline you have is the one you do or don’t set for yourself,” Mack said. “But just be aware that others might have their own deadlines, their own choices to make. And those deadlines and choices might affect you.”

  All I could do was nod and try to fight back the tears threatening to well up in my eyes.

  Mack was right.

  I needed to make a decision. Soon.

  Before someone else made it for me.

  I cleared my throat.

  There was another decision I needed to make.

  “Can I ask you my question now?” I asked.

  Mack inclined his head.

  I took a deep breath. It was now or never.

  “Why did you lie to me about the freeway being shut down?”

  THIRTY TWO

  Mack didn’t deny it.

  I didn’t know if I’d expected him to or not.

  He stared at the now almost empty glass in his hand. “I don’t know.”

  I sucked in another deep breath, trying to calm my nerves.

  Because it felt like we were on the cusp of steering the conversation toward territory I wasn’t sure I was ready to go.

  But I didn’t really have a choice, not if I wanted answers.

  “So...so you did lie,” I murmured.

  He didn’t respond, just sort of nodded.

  “Why?”

  That was the question that needed answering. Why had he lied to me? The only reason I was coming up with had to do with Miranda, which made my insides twist into an uncomfortable knot.

  “It’s going to sound ridiculous.”

  It couldn’t sound any more ridiculous than him murdering a woman and stuffing her in the trunk of his car.

  “Try me,” I suggested.

  He sighed. “I wanted to see you.”

  My eyebrows shot to my hairline. “Me?”

  He nodded.

  “Why?”

  He drained the remaining whiskey in his glass. “Because I wanted to see you.”

  The knot in my stomach morphed, and my eyes rounded and my mouth dropped open.

  “Mack,” I began, but my voice trailed off. He’d just talked about wanting to find someone to spend his evenings and weekends with, someone to...to have a relationship with. And he’d insisted he hadn’t meant me. But now he was telling me he’d come to town because he wanted to see me. Had he just lied to me earlier, too?

  A look of shock crossed his face, probably because he realized what conclusions I was drawing.

  “No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “Not like that. We already discussed this, remember? I am not interested in you.”

  Relief flooded me and I sank back against the back of my chair.

  “I just...I was driving back from the conference and I was thinking about all kinds of stuff. About what we talked about earlier.”

  The wanting someone around part. I got that.

  “And I knew you lived somewhere around here. I knew that if I took the back roads home, I’d probably drive by your town. Maybe even your house.” He stared at his lap and sighed. “Oh, heck, okay, it wasn’t probably. I planned it. I wanted to see where you’d moved to, where you lived.”

  The question I’d originally had was still there. “Why?”

  “Because I wanted to see what you had, what you’d found out here,” he admitted. “The phone calls we’ve had over the last several months...well, I knew it was something...different.”

  “You could have called,” I told him. “Told me you wanted to come for a visit. You didn’t have to settle for a shady drive-by one night.”

  He almost cracked a smile. “I guess. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to stop.”

  “You didn’t want to see me?”

  This time he did smile. “I didn’t want you to know that I wanted to see you.”

  “As a friend,” I added, waiting for him to confirm.

  He nodded. “As a friend.”

  My stomach felt marginally better. At least that issue had been cleared up.

  “So my intention had been to drive through town, maybe by your house, just to see where you were. Literally.” He brought the glass halfway to his mouth before he realized it was empty. “What I didn’t realize is that roads don’t get plowed around here.”

  It was my turn to smile. “Yeah, it does take a little longer here than in the metro to have roads cleared.”

  “So that’s basically the story,” he said. “I drove this way on purpose, but me landing in a ditch and showing up on your doorstep late at night was not part of the original plan.” He looked up at me. His eyes were a little watery, and I was hoping it was from the alcohol he’d just consumed. “But I had nothing to do with Miranda’s death. I swear it.”

  I believed him. Mack was a lot of things. Arrogant at times, pig-headed, and a pain in the rear end. But he wasn't a killer. I knew that I'd let my mind wander a little, simply because some of the things around Miranda's death hadn't added up. But I'd never really considered that Mack hurt her.

  I believed him.

  I got up from where I was sitting and plucked the empty glass from his hand. I could see the bottle of whiskey sitting on the dining room table and I headed in that direction to get Mack a refill. He looked like he needed it. I grabbed another empty glass, poured a finger in it, and brought both back to the living room. I handed Mack his glass and settled back down in my own chair.

  “The connection is still weird,” I said, taking a sip of the whiskey. I never drank it straight and immediately coughed as the liquid seared my throat.

  Mack chuckled. “Not a whiskey drinker?”

  Wordlessly, I shook my head, blinking back the tears now pooling in my eyes.

  “It is,” Mack agreed. “But there’s something even weirder.”

  I tried to look at him through the tears. I blinked a couple of times, then wiped at my eyes. My throat was finally beginning to feel like the fire had been put out.

  “What?” I managed to croak.

  “So I’ve been thinking about the conversation we had at the bar,” he said.

  “You and Miranda?”

  He nodded.

  I knew this was where they’d met, but he hadn’t talked much about their interaction.

  “Now, I’d had a bit to drink that night,” he said. “Conference was done and I was relaxing, so my memories are a bit fuzzy.”

  I nodded. This made sense. “But you remember something?” I prompted. “Something that might give us some clues as to what really happened?”

  “I don’t know,” Mack said slowly. “It might.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Well, I thought she was just making conversation with me, asking about general private eye stuff, you know?” He paused. “But now, after what’s happened, I have to think there might be something more.”

  “Like what?”

  “I think she was asking because she knew she was in danger, and she knew she was going to need help.”

  THIRTY THREE

  This felt like a significant development.

  At least it did to me.

  I leaned forward eagerly, my eyes on Mack. “What did she say?”

  He was already halfway through his second glass of whiskey. “She was asking questions about restraining orders, and how people go about protecting themselves. Simple questions, you know? I thought she was asking just to make small talk.”

  It sounded a little weird, classifying restraining order conversations as small talk, but I had to remind myself the context and the l
ocation of where their interaction had taken place.

  Miranda had been in a hotel bar where a private eye conference was being held. She’d been surrounded by men and women whose job it was to know these things, to learn about them. It was a when-in-Rome sort of thing. If I’d found myself in a room full of nurses, trying to make small talk, it would make sense to focus on health topics.

  But Mack was saying Miranda wasn’t just making small talk. She’d brought those topics up for a reason.

  “So why do you think it was more?” I asked.

  He thought for a minute. “I don’t know how to describe it,” he admitted. “I just...know. It’s just a gut feeling I have. There was something in the way she asked, the specificity of her questions. This wasn’t just feigned interest.”

  “What exactly did she say?”

  “She wanted to know about restraining orders,” Mack said, thinking. “And if I’d handled any stalking cases.”

  I frowned. “Aren’t those more like police cases and questions for law enforcement?”

  Mack shrugged. “Sure. But a lot of times the law’s hands are tied. People can file complaints about that kind of stuff but if it’s a he said, she said kind of thing, cases like that usually stall out...if they even get going in the first place.”

  “So how could someone like a private investigator help?”

  “Mostly surveillance,” Mack admitted. “Either physical or electronic. The goal would be to gather enough evidence so the victim could bring that information to the police.”

  “But that’s the police’s job. To investigate.”

  “Sure is,” Mack agreed. “But a lot of departments don’t have the time or resources to do it. And a lot of them can’t without evidence.”

  “That’s frustrating.”

  “Yeah, it is. But it keeps me employed, at least to some degree.”

  I nodded. I hated that anyone needed help from the police or private investigators but Mack was right: if they didn’t, he wouldn’t be employed.

  “So she didn’t mention anything in particular about a certain person?” I asked.

  “Not that I remember. But I was several drinks in at that point.”

  My hopes fell. “It would be great if she’d told you about Tim, at least mentioned him by name.” I glanced at Mack. “Because you think that’s who she was talking about, right?”

  “I don’t know. The photo was in his camper so it suggests some kind of connection between them. That’s not to say they were involved, or that he was stalking or threatening her, but I can put the pieces together and at least hypothesize that it might be the case.”

  “Let me make sure I have all the pieces.” I took another sip of my drink, a smaller one this time, and was pleased when it didn’t set my throat on fire. “Miranda approaches you at the hotel bar and starts a conversation. Feels like generic stuff because she doesn’t get too specific.”

  Mack nodded.

  “You end up spending the night together. You leave the next day and come through town, not because you know she’s from around here—”

  “I didn’t know that,” Mack interjected.”

  I waved my hand in the air. “Right. So you came here to see me...or at least see my house.”

  Another nod.

  “But your car ends up in the ditch and you hoof it to my house. We go looking for your car the next morning, it’s not there, but we find it out at Tim’s place. And Miranda’s body is in the trunk.”

  His answer this time was a curt nod and a quick sip of whiskey.

  “Sheriff thinks you’re responsible for her death but you maintain your innocence. Tim was the one who was last in possession of your car...and you also found evidence that he had a connection to Miranda because of the photo you found.”

  “All correct.” He sounded like a proud teacher praising a student.

  There was just one problem, though.

  As much as all that made sense, it still felt like only four pieces of a hundred-piece puzzle.

  “It’s a good start,” I said, looking at Mack and trying to sound encouraging. “But we need more than this. Way more.”

  To my surprise, Mack didn’t disagree.

  “I know.” He tossed back the remainder of his whiskey and stood up. “Which is why I really need to talk to Tim.”

  I got to my feet, alarmed. “You’re not going anywhere today.”

  The last thing he needed to do was go around asking questions and making accusations. He was calmly discussing things now, but after what had happened at the sheriff’s office, I knew his demeanor could change on a dime.

  He frowned. “Why not?”

  “Because you’re drunk,” I said bluntly.

  “I am not,” he protested. When I stared him down, he added, “I’m a little...tipsy. Not drunk.”

  “Baloney.” I folded my arms. “Besides, I’ve now had a drink and I’m not in any condition to drive.” I’d had two sips of whiskey that had only managed to scorch my throat, but I was hoping he hadn’t noticed. “So you have no way of getting there.”

  His frown turned into a scowl. “You are impossible. This is the second time you’ve used your car as a weapon.”

  “A weapon? That’s a bit of a stretch.”

  “Why are you doing this to me? I thought we were friends.”

  “We are friends.”

  “So take me.”

  “Mack?”

  He looked at me.

  “Do you remember when we went to Tim’s earlier this morning?”

  He gave me a blank stare.

  “When you found the photograph?”

  His expression cleared and he nodded.

  “Who wasn’t there?”

  He thought for a minute. “Tim?”

  I nodded. “So why would we go back today when we were just there a few hours ago? Don’t you think it would be better to wait until the morning?”

  “No.” Before I could say anything, he held up his hand. “The longer we wait, the more difficult it will become to find clues.”

  He had a point.

  But I also knew nothing good would come of taking him out to Tim’s in the condition he was currently in.

  I knew he didn’t want to, but we would have to wait until morning.

  And just hope that Tim would actually be there this time to answer our questions.

  THIRTY FOUR

  I thought Mack would be up and ready to go first thing the next morning.

  He was not.

  After convincing him I was serious about staying put, he’d finally relented and we agreed to put the investigation on the back burner for the night. I put together a simple dinner—deli meats and cheeses, pita bread and crackers, pickles and olives—while Mack struggled to get a fire going in the fireplace. We switched from whiskey to water, despite Mack’s grumblings, and spent the better part of the evening reminiscing about past cases and clients.

  It had been a good night.

  And it had reinforced my belief that Mack truly was innocent of what the sheriff was accusing him of.

  I glanced at the chicken clock mounted on the kitchen wall. It was just past eight o’clock. The sun was rising, the cloud-streaked sky awash in oranges and pinks. Frost dusted the windowpanes, sparkling like crystals, and I knew the magic would be melting soon.

  Coffee sat ready in the carafe thanks to the program function on the machine, and I immediately poured myself a cup, adding a generous splash of cream. I sat down at the table facing the window, intent on taking a few minutes to relax and wake up before heading upstairs to see if Mack was awake.

  I was alone with my coffee for all of thirty seconds.

  The sound of footsteps in the hallway grew louder and as I turned to look Mack appeared in the doorway. He was in a pair of flannel pajama pants and a John Deere t-shirt, both obviously pulled from the bag of clothes Declan had brought over. His hair stood on end and his eyes were still half-closed, probably encrusted with sleep.

  “Good mo
rning,” I said with a smile.

  He grunted. “Is it?” he asked as he shuffled toward the coffee pot.

  He leaned against the counter and took a deep drink from his steaming mug. I kept waiting for him to pull back, to wince at what should have been a burnt tongue, but he just kept drinking.

  He finished his coffee and set the mug down. “You ready to go?”

  I stared at him. “You going like that?” I asked, letting my eyes travel from his unkempt hair down to his bare feet.

  He made a face. “Of course not. Just need to change. I’ll be five minutes, tops.”

  “You don’t want breakfast? Something to eat before we go?”

  He shook his head. “The sooner we get there, the better.”

  It was the same thing he’d said the night before.

  And I knew I couldn’t put him off any longer.

  Not that I wanted, too.

  He needed answers—we both did, really, since the sheriff was lumping me in as somehow tied to the crime—and the only way we were going to get any was if we went out and looked for them. Clues didn’t just appear on my doorstep. Well, sometimes they did, but this case didn’t appear to be one of those times.

  “I need a couple of minutes,” I told him.

  A frown creased his forehead. “Why?”

  I motioned to the cup in front of me. “Because I haven’t finished this. And because I need something to eat.”

  He sighed impatiently.

  Which just made me move slower. I grabbed a banana and peeled it methodically, pulling the lingering white strands from the fruit. I ate it in tiny bites, with Mack watching me through narrowed eyes.

  Finally, I finished both the banana and the coffee and headed upstairs to change. Mack was waiting for me in the living room, pacing back and forth, when I came downstairs ten minutes later.

  He stopped by the fireplace as soon as he saw me.

  “Ready?” he asked expectantly.

  “Just need to grab my keys,” I told him.

  I turned down the hallway and headed into the kitchen to grab keys, my phone and my purse, and then rejoined him in the living room. He was already standing at the front door, his hand on the doorknob.