When The Rooster Kills (A Rainy Day Mystery Book 2) Page 11

  “Is she home now?” I asked.

  He almost smiled. “She’s pretty much bed-ridden. So, yeah, she’s home.”

  No wonder no one had answered when I knocked. My guilt kicked in as I remembered how many times I’d knocked, waiting for someone to answer the door. Had she been worried? Panicked that she couldn’t get to the person on the other side?

  He produced a key from his pocket, unlocked the door and pushed it open. The house was just as dark on the inside as it had looked from the doorstep, and he flipped a switch to illuminate the room.

  I stepped inside and felt like I’d time traveled back to the seventies. The walls were covered in gold and white wallpaper, an intricate floral design that almost made me dizzy looking at it. My shoes sank into gold shag carpeting, the kind I remembered having in my own house when I was growing up. Thirty some years ago.

  The living room had two velvet couches, both a rusty orange, and a plush brown recliner made of the same fabric. A wood and rattan coffee table sat in front of one of the couches, and an ancient television, the kind where it was actually a piece of furniture, was pushed up against one wall. There was a wood veneer bookcase behind the recliner and it was filled with knickknacks—mostly small decorative plates and tiny figurines.

  Mikey stood in front of me, watching me take in the room, waiting for me to say something.

  “It’s nice,” I offered. “Very homey.”

  He chuckled. “Sure. Homey.”

  He walked into the kitchen, a linoleum-floored room filled with avocado-colored appliances, and tossed his crumpled soda can in the trash.

  He motioned me toward the living room when a voice called out.

  “Mikey, is that you?”

  The voice was frail and shaky, definitely a woman’s voice. A grandmother’s voice.

  I relaxed.

  “Yeah, Grams,” he called back. To me, he said, “You can wait here, if you want. I need to go check on her.”

  I took a seat on one of the couches and felt the springs poke my backside. It was definitely as old as it looked.

  Mikey returned a few minutes later, holding a half-full water bottle and an empty plate. “Give me a sec,” he said. “I need to get Grams some water and her pills.”

  Two minutes later, he was back in the living room, plopping down on the couch across from me.

  “So,” he said, taking a deep breath. He ran his hand over his hair again and I was beginning to realize that this was a nervous tic of his, something he did when he was feeling uncomfortable. “You wanna know about me and Leslie.”

  I nodded.

  He leaned back against the couch and the springs squeaked in protest. He readjusted. “We knew each other in high school.”

  Of course. If they’d both grown up in Latney, it stood to reason that they would have attended the same school. Latney didn’t have its own high school—the local kids were bussed over to Winslow—but they all had to go to school somewhere.

  “And…well…” His hand returned to his head, and I was starting to worry that he might rub it so much, he’d end up with a bald spot.

  “Were you friends?” I asked. “Or…more than friends.”

  He looked at his hands. He picked his thumbnail. “Friends.”

  “Okay.”

  He looked up. “But we wanted to be more.”

  “And you couldn’t?”

  He shook his head.

  “Was the feeling mutual? Meaning, you both wanted to be together but you couldn’t?”

  He nodded.

  “And why was that?”

  He rubbed his head some more, took another deep breath. “It’s a long story.”

  I smiled. “I know. You’ve already told me that. And like I said before, I have time.”

  “I know. It’s just a little embarrassing,” he said.

  “What is embarrassing?” My curiosity was definitely piqued. What could have kept them apart if they both had wanted to be together? Had their parents not approved? Were they dating other people at the time, which kept them apart?

  “Okay, so my family is pretty religious,” he said. He was back to examining his cuticle. “My mom, especially. Grew up Catholic. And when we moved here—I was little, I think three or so—she was upset that there wasn’t a church in town. She’d drive to the closest one, which was about twenty miles away. Every Sunday, we went. I had my first communion. Went to catechism. Was an altar boy.”

  So he was raised in a religious family. I didn’t think Catholics weren’t allowed to date, but what did I know?

  “When I was fifteen, my mom got sick. Cancer.” He said it matter-of-factly, but the way his jaw tightened betrayed his emotion. “She went fast. Less than ten months from diagnosis until…the end.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said gently.

  He nodded and brushed at his head again, harder this time, like he was trying to scrub away the memory. “One of her dying wishes was to see me in the church.”

  I wondered if he’d stopped going while she was sick. “In the church? Meaning, she wanted you to start going again?”

  “Not exactly.” He shifted on the couch, bringing his legs a little closer together. “She wanted me to be in the church. Like, as a priest.”

  I swallowed. “Oh.” That would certainly put a damper on his love life. “And so, is this something you’re pursuing?” I was pretty sure flipping burgers was not a prerequisite to seminary, but what did I know?

  His cheeks flushed and he traced his fingers on the sofa cushion, drawing a pattern in the fabric. “Not exactly. But, while I was in high school, I sort of had a hard time dating.”

  “Understandably so,” I said, thinking of not only how hard it must have been to deal with his mother’s death but also her dying wish. That had the potential to dampen any ideas on dating. “So you and Leslie never dated?”

  He shook his head. “No, not ever. We were friends, I guess you could say, and we liked each other, but nothing ever happened. Nothing could happen, you know?”

  I did know. He had been a teenager struggling with the loss of his mom and trying to deal with her expectations from the grave. It was an unfair position, one that he hadn’t deserved to be in.

  “So where are you at now?” I asked. “With your religious…aspirations?”

  He gave a weird little half-smile. “I don’t have any.”

  “No?”

  He shook his head. “When I graduated from high school, I considered it. It was important to my mom. But then Grams got sick—she has kidney disease and a touch of dementia—and I knew her only option if I left would be to go into a home. I couldn't let that happen.”

  My heart ached for Mikey. What a tough situation to be in.

  “I got a job at the Wich to help make ends meet. Thought it would just be a summer gig, bussing tables and washing dishes, but Dawn threw me on the grill one night.” He glanced at me. “I mean, she didn’t actually throw me on the grill.”

  I grinned. “I figured.”

  “So, anyway, I started cooking and I just sort of fell in love with it.” He lifted his hand from the cushion and brought it back to his head. His touch was softer this time, more thoughtful. “Never thought I’d be a cook. But I’m pretty sure this is where I’m supposed to be. And I think Mom would be okay with it.”

  “Have you kept in touch with Leslie?” I asked. “Since graduating?”

  Mikey shook his head. “Not really. I heard about what she was up to, that she had a boyfriend and that she’d left town. Those things are kind of hard to miss around here.”

  I smiled again. That was a massive understatement. It seemed like nothing went unnoticed in Latney.

  “So you didn’t see her when she came back to town before this time?” I asked, remembering Vivian’s statements about Leslie returning for money.

  “Nope. My life is pretty much work and Grams.”

  He was a good kid, I thought. A good kid who deserved more from life than working the grill at his hometown res
taurant and taking care of his disabled grandmother.

  “And this time around? Have you talked to her at all?”

  “The only time I saw her was outside the restaurant. When her boyfriend was chasing her.”

  I thought about his reaction to Shawn, how he’d jumped to Leslie’s defense. At the time, I’d thought he was just being chivalrous, playing the knight-in-shining-armor card for a pretty girl who needed help. But then I remembered the way Leslie had hugged him, holding on tight, and the awkward way Mikey had patted her back. I should have put two and two together.

  If anyone needed evidence that I was not a PI, this was pretty much it.

  “When I overheard she was missing, I sort of freaked out,” Mikey said. “I wanted to do something to help, which is when you found me at Vivian’s. And yeah, I didn’t know how; I don’t know if I just thought I’d magically find some clue as to where she was or what. But then the sheriff put together the search party and I did help out with that.”

  I didn’t know this. “And didn’t find anything.”

  He wouldn’t look at me, but I saw a muscle twitch in his neck. “No. We haven’t found anything. Yet.”

  Rain pinged against the window, drawing my attention. Fat, angry drops spattered the glass, leaving rivulets of water racing down the panes.

  “What happened between you and Shawn today?”

  “We fought.”

  “Well, yes, I know that,” I said. “But what about? Did he have some news on Leslie?”

  “No,” Mikey said, shaking his head. “He didn’t have any news.”

  Lightning streaked the sky, followed by a low rumble. We both glanced at the window.

  “So if he didn’t have any news, why did you fight with him?”

  Mikey shrugged. “’Cuz he wasn’t telling the truth.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “You know this for a fact?”

  He nodded.

  “How?”

  “I just did,” Mikey said stubbornly. “I can tell that kind of stuff.”

  I wondered if this was a so-called skill that he’d also learned from watching detective TV shows.

  “He was all squirrely when I asked about her,” Mikey told me. “He came in looking for something to eat. Saw him sit down at a table and recognized him right away. Kind of hard not to, you know?” He rubbed his head. “So I walked over and asked him what he wanted to eat. And then I asked him where Leslie was.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he didn’t know.”

  I nodded. This was exactly what Shawn had told me.

  “But he kept looking around the restaurant, like he was expecting someone to show up. And he wouldn’t look at me when I asked him questions. He sort of stammered when he talked. All the tells of someone lying.”

  He really had picked up his “skills” by watching television.

  I bit back a sigh. “Then what happened?”

  Mikey looked a little sheepish. “I sort of lost my temper.”

  “The fight?”

  He nodded. “I grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him out of the booth. Told him he needed to tell me where Leslie was or he’d be sorry.”

  “And how did he take that?”

  “Not well,” he admitted. “He started yelling. I yelled back. Then Dawn showed up and grabbed onto my ear and yanked me away. Told me I had thirty seconds to get out of there and cool off or I wouldn’t have a job to come back to.”

  “So you left?”

  “I left. Stopped in to check on Gram, then headed over to my sister’s. Her toilet was clogged.”

  Again, there was evidence of Mikey being a good guy, of helping out others. But I was curious about something.

  “If your sister lives just a couple of houses away, why doesn’t she take care of your grandma?” I didn’t add anything about the why’s of my question: so Mikey could go to culinary school or go work at a restaurant in the city, if cooking really was his passion like he said.

  His hand returned to the top of his head. “She and Grams don’t get along.”

  “They don’t?”

  “Nope, and not because of anything Charlotte has done,” he said quickly. He hesitated. “Grams has…memory issues. She thinks Char is her sister.”

  “I take it that’s a bad thing?”

  “The worst,” he said, nodding. “Great-aunt Nadine stole Grams’ husband. They haven’t spoken in over forty years.”

  I winced. Now that was a family feud.

  “Char helps with cleaning and stuff,” he said, motioning to the spotless carpet and dust-free furniture. “And she cooks, too. Anything she can do where Grams won’t see her. But meds and personal care and just visiting…all that falls to me.”

  I felt bad. Mikey had dealt with an awful lot in his short life. Losing his mom and wrestling with her dying wish, being responsible for his ailing grandmother. It was a lot to shoulder.

  Then the girl he’d been in love with in high school had come back to town. And promptly disappeared. The girl he couldn’t be with because of his mom, whom he was now free of.

  The rain pounded against the windows and I thought about what I knew about Mikey. He was responsible. Kind. Hardworking. Loyal.

  He was all of those things.

  But I was pretty sure he was something, else, too. Something I realized while I sat there in his grandmother’s living room, listening to him tell me his life story.

  He was innocent.

  He had nothing to do with Leslie’s disappearance.

  TWENTY FOUR

  It took fifteen minutes for the rain to finally stop, and I made a mad dash down the street and back to the Wicked Wich.

  The skies were still stormy and fat puddles pooled on the sidewalks and roads. Water rained down from the trees, the wind shaking droplets loose, and I zigzagged the sidewalk, dodging the errant drops. By the time I got to my car, it had started sprinkling, and I knew it was only a matter of time before the clouds unleashed again.

  I turned on my headlights and drove slowly as I made my way back through town. The streets were dark and deserted, even though it was only afternoon, and the shops were aglow, shining like beacons against the gray sky.

  I left them all behind as I headed back to the farm. There were no streetlights on the county road that led to my house and I turned the wipers on as fast as they would go to try to improve visibility. I’d never liked driving in bad weather and I disliked it even more now. I didn’t know if this was related to age or location: did I worry about it more because I was older and less confident with my driving skills, or was it because I now lived in the middle of nowhere and one bad move might mean I’m in the ditch with no one around to find me?

  It was probably a little bit of both.

  The rain slowed again and I adjusted the wiper speed, relaxing in my seat. A patch of blue sky was almost visible and the worst of the clouds seemed to have moved just to the east of Latney. With any luck, the rain would be over by the time I pulled into my driveway.

  A gust of wind blew and the trees lining the road leaned right, their branches straining to remain attached, some of their leaves not so lucky. A few landed on my windshield and the wipers whisked them away, sending them to the road.

  Another gust blew and this time, something else flew in front of me. Something that looked an awful lot like a tent.

  I braked hard and the tires skidded on the wet road.

  I squinted into the field on my right. A bright orange tarp lay in a mangled heap in the grass. It definitely looked like a tent.

  Who on earth would be camping in weather like this? Better yet, where would they be camping?

  My first question was immediately answered.

  A man appeared on the side of the road about a block up, his hand flush against his forehead as he searched for something. Even from this distance, I could tell he was soaked. His hair was plastered to his forehead and his t-shirt looked like a second skin. He was wearing jeans, thoroughly soaked, and I could o
nly imagine how heavy they must have felt.

  I lifted my foot off the brake and inched forward.

  He noticed me. He waved a hand in my direction; not to flag me, but to let me know he was standing on the side of the road. At least, that was what I thought.

  Because as I got closer, I was pretty sure he recognized me. And I was probably the last person he wanted to see.

  I pulled over to the shoulder and rolled down my window. “What are you doing?”

  Shawn looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

  “What are you doing here?” he retorted, throwing my words back at me.

  I looked around. “I am on a road, driving home.” I gave him a pointed look. “You are soaking wet on the side of the road. Chasing a tent.”

  Water dripped into his eyes and he brushed it away. But more just dripped from his hair.

  “I…my tent blew away.”

  “I gathered that.” I looked him over. “Are you camping?” I wondered if this was the reason why he hadn’t told me where he was staying.

  “No.”

  “No?” I frowned. “Then why are you chasing your tent?”

  “I was just messing around with it,” he said defensively. “It was new. I wanted to set it up. A trial run.”

  “During a thunderstorm?”

  He nodded and water flew off him like a dog shaking itself.

  “You’re lying,” I said flatly.

  “I am not.”

  “You are. And if you’re lying about this, it makes me wonder what else you’ve lied about.” I paused. “Like the reason you said you were at my house. And the status of your relationship with Leslie.”

  His expression darkened. “I wasn’t lying about either of those things.”

  “Prove it.”

  “How? I can’t.”

  I reached for my purse and found my phone. “Well, maybe you can explain things to the sheriff.”

  His eyes widened and he held up a hand. The power of a cell phone was clearly one I’d underestimated. “Okay, fine. I…I wasn’t just setting up the tent. I’m staying in it.” He glanced at the field. “Or I was, until the wind took off with it.”