At first, their obsession with the time hadn’t registered with me. Maybe they all shared the same nervous tic. I’d been distracted by the idea of asking Nolan and Willy, in particular, to become library patrons. But in retrospect, their behavior made me curious. It was as though they’d all been anxious to leave To Be Read, when they’d literally just arrived. If they hadn’t wanted to be there, why had they come?
Jed didn’t write down my tip about their frequent time checks, though. Perhaps he didn’t find it as curious as I did. With nothing more concrete to contribute to the investigation, I felt helpless. Whether Fiona was well-liked or not—and I was beginning to think she wasn’t; call it a hunch—she deserved justice.
“Where was Ms. Gomez before Ms. Lyle-Hayes’s body was found?”
The question stirred all of my protective instincts toward my friend. Was Jed focusing on Jo? She had nothing to do with this. My voice was firm. “Jo was in the front of the store. She was either with me or within my line of sight the entire time.”
“Are you sure about that, ma’am?” Jed rubbed his upper lip.
“Positive. Spence can confirm it too.” I returned Jed’s steady stare through several beats of silence.
The deputy made another entry in his notepad. “Those are all the questions I have for you. For now. I may have a few follow-up questions later. Thank you for your time, Ms. Harris.”
I wrote my home phone number on my business card and handed the card to Jed.
The deputy studied it. “You work over at the library?”
“Yes, I’m the director of community engagement.”
He grunted. “I haven’t been to the library in years.”
Why was I not surprised?
Jed escorted me to the front of To Be Read just as Spence returned with the female deputy. Jo was already back, waiting with two members of her staff. Jed’s suspicious gaze scrutinized her before moving on to the rest of the room.
“Excuse me, folks,” he said loudly. “If I could just have your attention for a bit. Now, we understand y’all probably want to go home. Get back to your families. Try to enjoy what’s left of your weekend. Believe me, we understand. You can do all of that once you’ve given us your statements. But just so you know, we may have some follow-up questions for y’all down the road. All right now.”
He gave Jo another considering look before inviting one of her employees to join him in the children’s book section. Spence’s deputy took the other.
Jo was nursing the water one of her employees had given her earlier, or perhaps she’d refilled it. Still visibly shaken, she stared into the mug. “I told my team they could leave after they spoke with the deputies, but they said they’d stay to help close the store.”
“Good.” I glanced at Spence. He was regarding Jo with concern as well. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No, thank you.” Jo’s smile was a weak impersonation of her usual dazzling expression. “I appreciate everything you’ve both done already, taking charge of this…tragedy.” She drew a shuddering breath. “I’m just sick that someone was murdered. But that someone would do something like this in my store… It’s like they murdered a guest in my home.”
I gave her shoulder an empathetic squeeze. Jo’s analogy was perfect. She spent long hours at the store, tending to it as though it was her home. Vases of fresh flowers, bowls of potpourri, and plates of candy were scattered around the floor plan. And she treated her staff like family. I couldn’t imagine how Jo must feel. Fiona’s murder was a heinous act. How much more devastating would it be to have this crime committed in a place she loved so much?
“I’ll stay and drive you home when you’re ready to leave.” Spence’s voice was gentle.
“I’ll wait with you too.” I followed Spence’s gaze.
A young deputy carried out what appeared to be evidence kits. Had she found the murder weapon? I cautiously searched my memory. There hadn’t been anything resembling a weapon near Fiona’s body.
“Thank you.” Jo shook herself as though trying to shrug off the same helpless feeling that threatened to paralyze me. “The store’s closed Sundays. I’ll keep it closed Monday too, out of respect for Fiona.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you.” I examined Jo’s delicate features. She looked tired.
“Do you think the deputies suspect someone here killed Fiona?”
Spence raised his thick eyebrows and lowered his deep voice. “That doesn’t make sense. The killer would’ve been covered in blood.”
That same thought had crossed my mind.
I scanned To Be Read, settling on the front doors. The Closed sign hung in the window. “That’s the only way in or out of the store. Whether you’re a customer, an employee, or a delivery person, you use those doors.”
Jo glanced over her shoulder toward the entrance. “That’s right.”
I frowned. “Question: how did the killer, covered in blood, get past a store full of people without being noticed?”
Chapter 4
The next morning, I went for my usual early jog along an idyllic path I’d found in a park a few blocks from home. Only the faint chirrup of birds singing and memories of finding a murder victim kept me company.
I came to the short weathered wooden fence that separated the dirt trail from the swamp line. Sweat stung my eyes. I wiped them and focused on my black Apple Watch, a gift from my brother. It read a quarter to six a.m. I’d been running for thirty minutes, three miles. I turned toward home to finish my six-mile run.
A faint breeze cooled my heated skin. Each deep breath drew in the sharp scent of dew-laden grass and the musky smell of compost from the swamp. It beat the exhaust fumes that had kept me company on morning jogs through my old Brooklyn neighborhood. I emerged from the park and turned toward home. The sleepy streets allowed me to get lost in my own thoughts instead of playing chicken with the New York traffic. I did, however, miss the energy of the city that never sleeps, and the silent solidarity with other joggers. There was always a trade-off.
But another bonus: I’d been able to buy a house. It was a simple little A-line cottage with a white wood façade and a gray gable roof. Sugar maples and sweetgum trees lined my sidewalk, and black-eyed Susans waved from my front yard.
I jogged up the four steps to my little front porch and turned off my stopwatch. I collected the Sunday edition of The Peach Coast Crier from my doormat before letting myself in and deactivating my security alarm.
Carrying my newspaper and my running shoes, I went in search of my cat. “Phoenix?”
The name suited him. When I’d adopted my four-year-old gray tiger rescue tabby a little more than a year ago, he’d been thin and weak. After a month and a half, he’d gained weight and strength, rising from the ashes like the phoenix of Greek mythology.
In New York, Phoenix would meet me at my front door after my morning run. Since resettling in Peach Coast, he seemed to have given up his security detail. I walked through my living room and down the hallway to my yellow and white kitchen.
Phoenix’s food bowl stood about two-thirds empty near the side door. My shoulders slumped. It used to be that he wouldn’t leave even a crumb behind. The vet had said Phoenix might not have much of an appetite until he got used to his new home.
I passed through the doorway that separated the kitchen and dining room, dropped the newspaper on the table, and then turned to find Phoenix in the foyer. He’d stretched out in front of the French doors that opened onto the wood deck. His new favorite spot.
“Are you still having trouble settling in? It’s not easy for me, either. I’m homesick too.” I lowered myself to the hardwood floor beside him and stroked his soft, warm fur. “It’s quieter here, though. No sirens from emergency vehicles in the middle of the night. No neighbors, blaring their sound system or TVs. Don’t you like that? I do.” Mostly.
Ph
oenix gave me the side-eye as though I was missing the point. But after almost sixteen weeks, he still wouldn’t tell me what the point was. He’d always been moody, but this silent treatment was next level.
“I could use a little help, pal. We’ve gone to the vet twice. He doesn’t seem to know what to do, either.”
Still nothing. Even as I stroked him, he didn’t meow. He didn’t purr. He didn’t even stretch. He just ignored me as he stared through the French doors toward the Chinese privet bushes that edged our lawn. The real estate agent had taken pride in telling me those were the same hedges that surrounded the University of Georgia football stadium. She’d been offended I hadn’t been impressed.
I pushed to my feet. “I’m hitting the showers. Hang tight.”
Within the hour, bathed and dressed, I hustled back to the kitchen. Phoenix remained in front of the French doors, where he continued to ignore me. Pretending not to notice, I brought my cinnamon-flavored oatmeal, coffee, and orange juice to the dining table. I opened The Peach Coast Crier, shaking it more vigorously than necessary in an effort to get Phoenix’s attention. No dice. We usually read the news together, but after our relocation, my cat had stopped keeping up with current events. Maybe he missed The New York Times.
“Fiona Lyle-Hayes’s murder’s on the front page.” I shared the information over my shoulder. No reaction. “It’s sad. I’m sure she’d planned to celebrate her first book.” I shook my head as I sipped my coffee. The scent of the medium roast slapped my senses. Cream, four sugars. My sweet tooth imprisoned me.
The story went into detail about Fiona’s debut novel, In Death Do We Part. It was being hailed as an “engrossing mystery with twists and turns sure to keep readers breathlessly engaged.” Impressed, I made a mental note to ask if we had copies for the library.
The article didn’t reveal many personal insights about Fiona beyond her first publishing credit. It noted she’d been married to Buddy Hayes, who’d died a year earlier. She’d had a stepson, Robert Hayes, from Buddy’s previous marriage. Thinking about Betty Rodgers-Hayes, I shook my head. Who attended their ex-husband’s new wife’s book signing? Was that a Southern thing?
I arched an eyebrow at Phoenix’s back. “I wouldn’t go to my ex’s new wife’s signing on a bet.” Not so much as a flick of his ear in response. I returned to the paper.
The story quoted Deputy Jedidiah Whatley. “Ms. Lyle-Hayes’s murder is a terrible tragedy for our community. We’re determined to find justice for her and to ensure the safety of our community.”
The only personal quote in the article was attributed to Zelda Taylor, the Coastal Fiction Writers president. “Fiona had been our group’s treasurer for almost a year. She managed our money. She was good at that. Our condolences to her family and friends.”
Zelda had used the same phrasing about money during the book signing. Was that really all she’d had to say for the article, or had the reporter run out of space?
I glanced toward Phoenix. “There was no love lost between Zelda and Fiona.”
Phoenix cut me a dismissive glare before returning to his surveillance. That hadn’t been a pleasant response, but at least he’d given me something. I crossed to the foyer and gathered him to me. He melted in my arms when I stroked his forehead.
I carried him back to the dining table with its matching chairs. “It’s like I told you yesterday: I wish I could’ve given the deputies more information. I wish I’d seen or heard something, but I’d been with Jo and Spence in the main part of the store the entire time.”
I froze beside the rectangular table. “Phoenix, why didn’t I hear anything? Why didn’t any of us hear anything? If someone was stabbing me multiple times, people would hear me in Atlanta. Why didn’t anyone hear Fiona from just across the store?”
Atlanta was three hundred forty-two miles from Peach Coast. I’d looked it up. Driving sixty-five miles an hour, it would take five hours and twenty-six minutes to travel between the locales.
“Oh, well. The deputies will figure it out.” Shaking my head, I reclaimed my seat.
Phoenix started to purr. Was I finally getting through to him after all these months?
“There’s my boy.” I gave him a brief squeeze before continuing to stroke his forehead.
I scanned the other news stories. One was a preview of the next town council budget planning meeting. Hopefully, council members would look kindly on the library. Another article revealed plans for the annual Independence Day parade, still two months away. The paper also carried an announcement of an upcoming readers-and-authors event to be held at one of the beachside hotels. I felt a rush of excitement.
I’d started reading about the event when my cell phone rang. The screen displayed Jo’s name.
“Hey, Jo.” I switched hands so I could continue petting Phoenix. “How’s your Sun—”
“They think I did it.” She was frantic. “They think I killed Fiona.”
Chapter 5
Fifteen minutes later, Jo was sitting at my dining table. “The deputies interrogated me.” Her voice squeaked with panic.
Phoenix gave her a startled look before running from the room. His claws clicked against the honey wood flooring. Jo’s anxiety had been too much for him.
I’d offered to go to Jo’s house, but she’d insisted on coming to mine. Perhaps she’d needed distance between herself and her latest encounter with law enforcement. I brought out the big guns: chamomile tea, meant to soothe her. I nudged the rose porcelain mug across the table toward her with one hand and gently pushed her fingers away from her mouth with the other.
“Start from the beginning—and stop biting your nails.” I took my seat at the head of the table.
Jo took a deep drink of the herbal brew. “The deputies came to my house around eight o’clock this morning. I was on my way to church.”
I’d attended the Saturday evening Mass and lit a candle for Fiona. “Which deputies?” I asked.
“The older one who questioned you, Jed Whatley, and the tall one who questioned me, Errol Cole.”
“Go on.” I sipped my coffee. For me, it was still too early for tea.
“They asked me tons and tons of questions. How well had I known Fiona? Had we had any disagreements? Can anyone confirm I hadn’t checked on her while she was in my storage room? Well, of course I hadn’t checked on her! And if she’d been as rude to the deputies as she’d been to me, they wouldn’t have checked on her, either.”
Tension seized my shoulders. “Did you actually say that to them?”
“Of course not,” Jo grumbled. “They would’ve taken it as a confession.”
“Probably. The deputies questioned you again, but what makes you think you’re a suspect?”
“When I asked them if I was a suspect, they said yes.” Jo pushed herself up from the table and paced the width of the room. Thank goodness Phoenix had left. Her agitation would’ve given him a coronary. “They said, ‘Well, ma’am, the murder did take place in your store.’” Jo deepened her natural cadence to impersonate the male deputies.
Although I was starting to share her concern, I made a good faith effort to be the voice of reason. “This is only the second day of the investigation. Right now, everyone’s a suspect.”
Jo stopped and stared at the black-and-white picture of the New York Public Library, my previous place of employment. I’d mounted the photo in a thin black nine-by-twelve-inch metal frame to display on my wall. Odds were Jo wasn’t seeing Patience and Fortitude, the marble lions that greeted the library’s guests. Instead, images from her disturbing early-morning visit from the deputies were surely playing on a loop in her mind.
“As I told the deputies, I was in the storage room with Fiona for probably less than ten minutes. From there, I went straight to check on the event setup with my team. I was helping them arrange the tables and chairs when Zelda showed up, and then you arrive
d with Spence.”
What a relief. “You have people who can corroborate that you didn’t return to the storage room until you, Spence, and I went to get Fiona.”
Jo turned to me. “Yes, but as the deputies pointed out, that means I was the last person to see Fiona alive.”
“No, you weren’t. The killer was.”
“And the deputies think I’m the killer.” Jo dragged both hands through her hair. Freed from the ponytail she wore at work, the thick raven tresses tumbled halfway down her back. “I’m scared, Marvey. I don’t have money for a lawyer.”
“You won’t need one.” I needed to believe that was true. We both did.
“Oh, yes, I will.” Jo resumed her pacing. “I’m not convinced these Bulldog fans will do an unbiased investigation.”
What, now?
Jo had caught me off guard. Don’t get me wrong—New Yorkers were avid sports fans. But college football wasn’t a thing in New York. It was a thing in the South, though. A very big thing.
I regarded Jo with mild concern as I tracked her journey back across my dining room. Connecting a murder investigation to a college rivalry sounded insane. “I read the Crier’s article on Fiona’s murder. The deputies are taking this case very seriously. This is about justice for Fiona, not a college prank.”
Jo stopped with her back to me. “I’ve never felt so isolated.”
“The investigation’s just started. You didn’t have a motive to kill Fiona, nor did you have the opportunity.”
“Then why do I feel like I’m going to wake up tomorrow and be served with a warrant for my arrest?”
What was it about the deputies’ behavior that had made Jo so paranoid? “That’s not going to happen.”
We were silent for several moments. Jo paced while I sat, holding my pendant like a talisman. Today’s image was an orange-and-black illustration of the cover of Maya Angelou’s 1969 classic I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.
Murder by Page One Page 3