by Jill Orr
“That’s ridiculous! Being young doesn’t mean you’re not capable.” I know as the press I’m supposed to be impartial where local politics are concerned, but I couldn’t help but take that comment a little personally.
“Coffee’s done.”
“Thanks.” I took the mug and two packets of sugar off the credenza.
“I just have a feeling this race could get ugly.” Carl’s mouth flattened into a thin line, the way it always did when he was worried.
I wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t disagree with him. I’d once covered a city council meeting in which Skipper Hazelrigg ranted for forty-five minutes about how allowing a Dollar General to open up would plunge Tuttle Corner into an economic tailspin that would leave our streets empty and our citizens penniless. He made a twenty-slide Power-Point, set to music from Les Misérables. By the end of his public comment, he had almost every person in that room convinced that Dollar General was an outpost of the devil himself.
“What does Lisa think?” I asked. Lisa Haight was a teacher at Tuttle Elementary and perhaps the sweetest person who ever walked the Earth. She was one of two kindergarten teachers at the school, and people were known to hold their kids back a year if they didn’t get into her class.
“She says I shouldn’t worry, says Skipper may have more business experience, more contacts, and more money than me, but I have more heart.” He rolled his eyes. “Like that’s what people want in a sheriff.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “You might be surprised.”
“Enough about that. How’re things going with you? Any news from Brunswick County?”
Carl had reached out to Sheriff Clark when he heard about Flick’s death and offered his assistance. He’d also vouched for me, which I think had been one of the reasons Sheriff Clark had been open to talking with me about the case.
“Not yet,” I told Carl. “I talked to him a few days ago, but he said they were at a dead end. I’m worried they’re just going to let the case go unsolved.”
“Did they ever determine why Flick was on that particular stretch of road at that time of night?”
“Not that I know of.”
Carl made a face. “They don’t know where he was going? Or why?”
I shook my head.
“Hmm…I’d think…” He hesitated.
“What? Carl—tell me.”
“Nothing, I mean, I don’t want to tell anyone how to do their job, but if it were me investigating a hit and run, one of the first things I’da done was get phone records of the deceased to determine who they’d been talking to right before they were killed. I’d have checked with all the local hotels and motels in the area to see if Flick had been staying anywhere nearby—or was planning to. I’d check credit card statements, bank transactions, email accounts. All of it. Seems to me if you’re looking to find out who committed a crime, you have to start by finding witnesses, if not to the crime itself then at least to what the victim was doing right before, who he’d been talking to, things like that.”
I wondered if Sheriff Clark had been asking these questions, investigating these angles. It’s entirely possible he was and that he just wasn’t sharing his process with me. After all, he didn’t know me like Carl did. For all he knew, I was some buttinsky journalist with an ax to grind.
“You’re the executor of his estate, right?” Carl asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“Then you should have access to a lot of that stuff, you know.”
I hadn’t thought about that before, but he was right. Not only had Flick given me power of attorney, he’d also named me as the executor of his will.
“Thanks, Carl,” I said. “See—this is why Tuttle Corner needs you as our sheriff!” I drained the rest of my coffee in one gulp and stood to leave.
“Where’re you going?”
“To make some calls.”
“Riley, be careful,” he said, his voice taking on that ominous warning tone that I’d become familiar with over the past few months.
“What?” I was halfway into my coat, anxious to get back to the office and request some of these records. “You just said—”
Carl walked over and held the corner of my coat so I could slip my arm inside. “I know what I said. And now I’m saying be careful. Whoever killed Flick is out there. They could be watching the investigation and watching you.”
“I know,” I said. The image of Coltrane growling last night popped into my mind. “Trust me, I will be.”
“Will you?”
“Geez, Carl.” I rolled my eyes. “Yes, I said I would.”
“Because careful is not really your thing.”
I laughed. He didn’t.
“I hate to say it,” Carl said. “But I agree with Skipper Hazelrigg. Tuttle County has become a much more dangerous place than when we were kids.”
“It’s gonna be all right, Carl. Don’t worry.” I didn’t say whether I was referring to tracking down Flick’s killer or Carl’s race for sheriff, mostly because I didn’t know which, if either, would actually be okay.
CHAPTER 8
On my walk back to the office from the sheriff’s station, my phone rang. It was Hank Jorgensmeyer, Jay’s friend from the Department of Transportation. “Thanks for calling me back,” I said, digging out my notebook. I parked myself on the nearest bench, even though it was thirty-five degrees outside. The freezing temperatures at least guaranteed me privacy out here.
I explained the situation to Hank, including a little bit of background context, that Flick had been ruffling the feathers of some people who had possibly killed in the past. That may have been a teensy bit of guesswork on my part, but whatever. Hank told me he was sorry, and then told me what he would have done if he’d been the lead investigator.
“In a case like this where you have very little physical evidence to work off of, you want to focus on motive. You want to examine who had incentive to kill the victim, check their alibi, check whether or not they’d had any recent communications with the deceased. You have to work from the outside in, especially if you have some idea of who might be behind it.”
“And if you don’t?”
“Well, then you scour the victim’s life for clues. In my experience, people aren’t murdered for no reason. Something your friend was up to got the attention of the wrong person. If you can figure out what it was, you can trace out the tentacles from there.”
I wrote all of this down.
He added, “But this takes time and resources, two things most small-town sheriff departments are short on.”
“Do you think they’d take leads from, um, outside sources?”
“Are you planning to run your own investigation into the accident?” He laughed, a big round bubble of a sound.
“Maybe. And it wasn’t an accident.”
“I’m sorry.” He cleared his throat. “It depends. Some offices will appreciate the help, some won’t. All I can tell you is whatever you do, do not mistake yourself for a law enforcement professional. If you want to do some background legwork on paper trails and things like that, fine, but the minute you overstep, you could find yourself in a world of trouble that could jeopardize the entire case, not to mention your own safety.”
“I’m not a moron, Hank,” I said.
“Oh, I can tell,” he said without any sarcasm in his voice. “I’m just telling you to be careful.”
“I see someone has been well coached.” When Jay and I were dating, I’d received many a similar lecture from Jay about the dangers of crossing the line between reporter and cop.
Hank let out another jolly laugh. If he had a big belly and a white beard, he could moonlight as a mall Santa. “Just watch yourself is all I’m saying.”
This was the third time in twenty-four hours that I was told to ‘be careful’ by some man. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t resent it just a bit.
“I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me,” I said, sidestepping his warning.
“Riley?�
�
“Yes?”
“Jay just thinks the world of you. I know he’d want to make sure you’re being safe.”
His words knocked me off balance. Jay and I had a brief but intense romance a few months ago. Our breakup had been due to logistics more than anything else, and I was aware I had some unresolved feelings for him. He’d actually come to my rescue not too long ago when my car broke down in DC, where he was now living. He’d invited me over to his place and just when I was beginning to rethink the whole breakup thing, he introduced me to his new girlfriend, Chloe. They were so cute together, it quite literally almost made me puke.
“That’s nice.” And then unable to resist, I added, “I’m sure he and Chloe talk about my safety all the time.”
“Chloe?”
“Jay’s new girlfriend?”
“Oh,” he said, sounding embarrassed. “I didn’t know that he had a new girlfriend. Whoops, I’m sorry. Well, in any case, Jay’s a good friend to have.”
A million responses came to my mind: Is he? We’re not exactly friends. Jay is good at a lot of things…but in the end, I simply thanked Hank for his time and hung up.
CHAPTER 9
No one had been more surprised than me to find out that Hal Flick named me executor of his will. Flick and I had been close when I was younger, but after Granddad died everything changed. When he refused to listen to my theory that Albert hadn’t killed himself, I’d locked Flick out of my life completely. And he didn’t really fight it. He’d pulled away from me too, and over the years a deep chasm of bitterness and resentment grew between us. I was hurt by what I perceived as his abandonment of his best friend, but mostly I was young, angry, and immature. I was mad that Granddaddy had left me—whether it had been his choice or not—and needed to blame someone. Flick became that someone for me.
It wasn’t until I’d started working at the Times that Flick and I reconnected. It had been a slow process, but over the past several months we’d talked about everything from our shared memories of Albert Ellison to the fundamentals of obituary writing. We spent hours working together at the paper, and recently he’d even started coming by my parents’ house again like he used to back in the day. In fact, my father had invited him to spend Christmas Eve with us. Flick was planning to bring the cranberry sauce.
After he died, I went through his paper address book and called everyone with the last name Flick I could find. It was a small list. He had an ex-wife to whom he’d been briefly married, but they’d had no children and weren’t in touch anymore. Upon hearing the news, she’d said she was “saddened.” It felt like a response of theoretical sadness and reminded me of what someone would say about the death of an ancient celebrity or a former politician. Flick also had two nephews and a niece, his brother’s children, whom he hadn’t seen since his brother’s funeral seven years earlier. None of these people came to the funeral; only two sent cards.
In light of his small family, it made more sense that he would have chosen me as executor. But why not choose my father? Or my mother, for that matter? I couldn’t help but think that Flick wanted me to be the executor of his estate because of something to do with his investigation. That had just been between us. As far as I knew, I was the only person who knew what he was working on. I suppose it made sense to leave me in a position to carry it on. That’s why he’d left the file for me, wasn’t it? In case something happens to me…he’d told Kay.
I called Flick’s lawyer, Stanley Calhoun, and asked him what records I could access.
“As executor, you can request phone records, financial records, medical records—anything really. Why do you ask?”
I hesitated for a moment. “Is this between us?”
“It can be.”
I lowered my voice. “I’ve been disappointed with the progress the Brunswick County sheriff’s department has made in the accident investigation. I was thinking maybe I’d see if I could help out.”
“So, you’re going to do some amateur sleuthing?”
“I’m a reporter. Technically, I am simply doing research on an important news item.”
“Uh-huh,” he said. “Riley, listen, if you—”
“Let me stop you right there,” I said, gall rising in my throat. “I appreciate your concern, but please do not tell me to be careful. I am a grown woman who is perfectly capable of assessing the risk associated with my decisions.”
“Um, I was going to say you can drop by my office and pick up the documents you need to request those sorts of records. It can take a while to get them, so the earlier you start on it, the better.”
“Oh,” I said, glad he couldn’t see my reddening face through the phone. “Sorry.”
“Had enough of people trying to tell you how to behave, have you?”
“To last a lifetime.”
“Well, you won’t get any warnings from me. I’m actually glad to hear you’re looking into it. Flick was a good man. He didn’t deserve what happened to him, and if the cops aren’t able to figure out what happened, someone needs to.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“I’ll get the documents prepared and you can run by and sign them later today,” Stanley said.
I spent the next few hours making phone calls on the “Life in a Day” column. Myrna Rothchild’s sister, who lived in West Virginia, kept me on the phone for nearly thirty minutes telling me story after story about how Myrna’s love for Christmas had grown from the time she was young. I also spoke to Myrna’s daughter, Beth, and also to Ed Sutherland, the electrician who helped create her Tuttlefamous “magic tree.” As I started to write the piece, I felt Flick’s loss like a phantom limb. We had always worked on these together, talking through which details would best illuminate the individual life we were focusing on. Flick had a special eye for that sort of thing. This column was his legacy, and I hoped I could do him proud.
About ten minutes later, Holman walked into the newsroom with his earbuds in (I wondered if he was listening to Taylor Swift). I grabbed his elbow as he walked past. “Hey, what’re you doing on New Year’s Eve?”
He took the right earbud out. “What did you say?”
“New Year’s Eve…do you have plans?”
He looked at me like I had just handed him a carton of milk and said, Smell this. “Why?”
I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “Why are you asking why?”
“Why are you asking why I am asking why?”
“Holman! It’s a simple question: I just want to know if you’d like to come to a party with me on New Year’s Eve.”
Holman took out the other earbud with a sigh. I heard him mutter, “Here we go again…” under his breath. “Can you come into my office a minute? I think we should talk in private.”
“No, Holman this isn’t—”
“Please.” He held up his hand. “Let’s not make this harder than it has to be.”
Having been down this road a number of times, I knew where this was going. Holman was going to attempt to let me down easy. Again. Despite my never, ever—not even once—having expressed the slightest bit of romantic interest in him, Holman seemed to forever be explaining to me why it was best if we just remained friends.
I followed him into his office and waited for the familiar lecture to begin.
“Riley,” he said, his voice dripping with gentle condescension. “The holidays can be a difficult time of year, and I know this year has been particularly hard for you. But you have to accept that you and I—” he broke off and steepled his fingers together, “we’re just better off—”
“Yeah, yeah, we’re just friends. I get it.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“What a relief,” he said. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll try to pick up the pieces and move on.”
Holman, who was completely impervious to sarcasm, smiled. “Brave girl.”
I bit back a thousand snarky responses and moved on. “Listen, Ash’s cousin is having a Grea
t Gatsby–themed New Year’s Eve party. You should come!”
“A Great Gatsby party? What does that mean?”
“Nothing really. It’s just like a theme for decorations and stuff. And some people will probably dress up like people from the twenties, but you don’t have to.”
“The roaring twenties,” he said. I could practically see the intricate cogs and gears of Holman’s mind twisting and turning as he attempted to process this information. “It was a time of tailored fashions for men, I believe. Suits and ties were de rigueur for day, tuxedos and top hats were often worn for an evening out. In fact, I believe that was when the zoot suit rose to—”
“No zoot suits.” I cut him off. “It’s pretty much just a regular party. Do you want to go?”
“With you?”
“Don’t look so horrified. Yes, with me—and Ash.”
“Oh, right, Ash…”
“Why do you say it like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like his name tastes bad in your mouth.”
“Names don’t taste like anything, Riley. They’re just words.”
I had a feeling Holman was being purposely obtuse. That was too literal, even for him. “Anyway,” I said, “Ash invited me, and I’m inviting you. I think there will be a fun group of people around our age there. And it beats sitting at home. Do you want to come with or not?”
Holman stared at me while he considered the invitation. After a moment he said, “Sure, it’ll be the cat’s pajamas!”
“No, Holman—you don’t have to—”
“We’ll get our glad rags on and have a swell old time!”
I was already starting to regret this. “So, you’re in?”
“Like Flynn.”
“Great.” I stood up to leave. I was excited to tell Lindsey the good news.
“Actually,” Holman held up a long, bony finger. “The expression ‘in like Flynn’ didn’t appear in common parlance till closer to 1940, referring to the professional prowess of actor Errol Flynn, of course, so technically that would be incorrect in the context of the party. Perhaps a more apt colloquialism for the Jazz Age would be—”