Last Straw (A Rainy Day Mystery Book 7) Page 11

“Need some help?” I called.

  Wordlessly, she shook her head.

  I watched as she finally managed to wrestle it to a stop in front of a blue sedan. She rolled it up to the side of the car, but a wheel on the cart hit a crack because the whole thing pitched forward, dumping the 12-packs of soda onto the parking lot.

  I hurried over to help her.

  “I’ve got it,” she said. She sounded as exasperated as she looked. She yanked open one of the back passenger doors and started putting bags inside. I grabbed one of the packs of soda and reached for the other door handle. I opened it and the wind barreled through both open doors, blowing sheaves of paper from inside her car out and into the parking lot.

  I covered my hand with my mouth. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.” I dropped the soda on the seat and raced through the lot, grabbing as many of the papers as I could. Lucy had abandoned the groceries and was doing the same thing.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said again, huffing as I gathered up the last of the papers. I tried to straighten them, which was sort of hard to do standing in the middle of a parking lot with a brisk wind blowing.

  I held out the stack to Lucy, but not before I noticed some of the words typed across the page on top of the stack, words that stopped me cold.

  FORECLOSURE NOTICE

  TWENTY SEVEN

  Lucy snatched the papers from my hands. Her face was red, and I didn’t know if this was from exertion or embarrassment that I was holding what looked to be pretty personal financial documents.

  “Just because you think you’re a private investigator doesn’t give you the right to go snooping through other people’s belonging,” she snapped.

  “I…I wasn’t snooping,” I stammered.

  “You were reading my personal files!”

  “I was picking them up after they blew across the parking lot. I wasn’t reading them.”

  “Well, the only reason they needed to be picked up was because of you.”

  “I’m sorry. I was just trying to help with your groceries.”

  That really was all I had been trying to do.

  “How much did you see?” Lucy demanded.

  “What?”

  She waved the papers. “Of these. How much did you see?”

  I folded my arms. “Nothing, really. I just…” I gulped. “I just saw the sheet that said Foreclosure Notice.”

  “And that’s nothing?” She rolled her eyes.

  “Look, it’s none of my business what is going on—”

  “You’re right about that.”

  “—and I’m sorry about trying to help.” I swallowed and then added in a low voice, “And I’m sorry about the foreclosure.”

  Lucy’s story suddenly made a whole lot more sense. I knew from conversations with every member of the Forsythe family that she was staying at Gunnar’s because she was no longer living in her old house and her new one wasn’t ready. But this was the first I’d heard about the circumstances surrounding her move. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but the fact that her home had been foreclosed on seemed like a pretty good indication that the move had been unexpected…and that maybe she really didn’t have anywhere else to go.

  “Gunnar doesn’t know,” Lucy said. Her arms were folded now, too, the papers tucked against her side.

  “I won’t say anything,” I said quickly.

  Lucy’s expression was dark. “I don’t need his sympathy.”

  “I would think he’d be willing to help however he could,” I said, trying to be helpful.

  Lucy gave a short, sharp laugh. “Help? He’s got that image covered, doesn’t he? Helpful Gunnar, always willing to lend a hand.” She laughed again. “Where was the help when he took the house from under me, huh?”

  I stared at her. Her eyes were huge behind her glasses, her eyebrows knit into a frown.

  She chortled again when she saw the surprise register on my face. “Oh, you didn’t know that? That precious, honest Gunnar decided to absolutely hose me in the divorce?” Her arms unfolded. “Well, he did.” She shook the papers at me. “And that is why I’m going through all of this crap!”

  “I…I don’t know what to say,” I said.

  Lucy shook her head. “I’ll tell you what to say. Nothing. Gunnar was kind enough to let Jill and me come here to stay, but he doesn’t need to know the reason why. I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that things are this bad for me.” She straightened, looking down her nose at me through those big, thick frames. “I am a strong woman, Rainy. I don’t need a man to help me out. Any man.”

  It didn’t seem like the right time to point out that a man actually was helping her out. Her ex-husband, by giving her a place to stay for the holidays. But I knew what she was trying to say. She was going through hard times, and the last thing she wanted was for anyone to know just how difficult her situation was. As a divorced woman who was also trying to navigate life as a strong, independent woman, I could relate.

  Lucy stuffed the papers back in her car and, without another word, hopped into the driver’s seat and took off. I watched her peel out of the parking lot before heading back to my own car.

  As soon as I sat down and closed the car door behind me, I replayed what had just happened in the parking lot. Several things hit me all at once. One, Lucy was painting a picture of a Gunnar I didn’t know, a man who would hold a grudge and purposely hurt someone he had been close to, all for the sake of…money? Revenge? I didn’t know. The accusation made me uneasy, because I was thinking of how Gunnar had revealed another side of himself to me over Thanksgiving, when he’d expressed his jealousy about my then non-existent relationship with Declan.

  Could Gunnar really have done that to Lucy, taken the house in the divorce? I supposed anything was possible, but I still had a hard time buying it.

  I also thought back to my earlier conversation with her, when she’d talked about love and being a family. Had that all been a ruse, a cover so that she wouldn’t have to reveal—to anyone—the real reason she was staying with him over the Christmas holiday?

  My thoughts shifted, and I was thinking about my earlier morning visit to Gunnar’s house, when Jill had answered the door and intimated that her parents were upstairs together. In a bedroom. She hadn’t said in so many words what she thought they might be doing, but she hadn’t needed to. And I wondered, if Lucy was displaying this much animosity toward her ex-husband—animosity I hadn’t known existed—would she really have gone upstairs and slept with him? I knew love and hate walked a tight line, but I couldn’t fathom wanting to sleep with someone who I held responsible for any financial issues.

  And then my thoughts shifted again.

  Because suddenly, I was pretty sure I had a new suspect to investigate. Lucy had never really been on my radar as a potential suspect, only a witness, but I was now thinking otherwise. Sure, I’d entertained the thought—any investigator worth their salt would consider every possible angle—but it had never morphed beyond anything other than a remote possibility. But if she really was that upset with Gunnar, and had held a grudge over something that had happened between them years ago, it stood to reason that she could have hidden the drugs to frame him.

  My pulse ratcheted up a notch. If Gunnar were out of the picture, would Lucy get the house? I had no idea.

  But I did know one thing. What I was speculating about could very well be the perfect crime: Lucy taking advantage of Gunnar’s willingness to help people out and extending an invitation to her; her planting the drugs; and then her calling it in so that Gunnar would take the fall.

  I gripped the steering wheel with one hand while I fished my phone out of my purse.

  I knew what I needed to do.

  I needed to talk to Gunnar.

  TWENTY EIGHT

  Gunnar answered right away. “Rainy?”

  “I need to see you.”

  There was a pause. “Uh, we just did.”

  I tucked the phone against my shoulder and shifted the car in reverse.
“I know. But I need to see you again.”

  “Look, if this is about the money, I already told—”

  I cut him off. “It’s not about the money, I promise.”

  “Then what is it about?”

  I didn’t want to discuss his ex-wife and the fact that I now considered her a prime suspect over the phone. “It’s about the case.”

  “The case? As in mine?”

  “Yes. But I would prefer to talk in person.”

  “I’m home now. You’re welcome to stop by.”

  I shuddered just thinking about it. After what had just happened with Lucy in the parking lot and the suspicions I had about her, I knew talking to him at his house, where there was a strong possibility Lucy would be around, was not the best option.

  “Can you meet me in town?”

  “You want me to drive back to town?”

  I felt a little guilty suggesting it, but I didn’t know what else to suggest as a meeting place. His house was out, and mine was, too. The last thing I needed was Laura eavesdropping, especially because I’d told her I wasn’t working on anything.

  “How about at the Wicked Wich?” I offered. “We can grab a late lunch or something.”

  There was another pregnant pause, and heat flooded my cheeks when I realized that what I was suggesting sounded an awful lot like a date.

  “Okay,” he agreed. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

  “No,” I said quickly.

  “What?” His voice registered his confusion. “You just said—”

  “I mean no, not in fifteen minutes. An hour.”

  “An hour?”

  I turned out of Toby’s parking lot, but I didn’t head toward the Wicked Wich. Instead, I pointed my car in the direction of Winslow.

  “I have to go somewhere else first,” I told him. When he didn’t respond, I added, “Just trust me, Gunnar. Please.”

  We hung up and I drove ten miles over the speed limit, reaching the sheriff’s office in Winslow in record time. I had a moment of panic as I drove, wondering if he’d actually be in his office. Technically, the day before Christmas Eve wasn’t a holiday, but the sheriff didn’t follow many of the things I considered normal, so it wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d decided to shut down law enforcement in Bueller County for an extended holiday. He had decided to delay Gunnar’s arrest, after all.

  I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the lights on inside the office and his trusty sedan parked out front.

  Cindy was not behind the desk in the receiving area, and I didn’t know if this was a good sign or not. There was a bell on her desk to ring for service, but I ignored it and simply walked back toward the sheriff’s office. What was the worst that could happen?

  Sheriff Lewis was parked behind his desk, a large slice of fruitcake sitting in front of him. His hat was off to the side of his desk, and he’d loosened the top button of his white button-down shirt. He had his fork in his hand, ready to bring it to his mouth, when he glanced up and spotted me.

  He frowned. “What are you doing here?”

  I wondered if I should start with pleasantries; soften him up a little. But this was Sheriff Lewis, and not once since I’d known him had I ever seen him respond to flattery or kind words.

  “I have some questions about the case,” I said truthfully.

  He grunted and ate his bite of fruitcake.

  “Just a question or two,” I said.

  “What makes you think I’m gonna share information with you?” he scoffed.

  I sat down across from him and took a deep breath. Fruitcake crumbs were embedded in his bushy white moustache and I wondered just how many pieces he’d already eaten.

  “Here’s why I think you might,” I said, trying my best to offer him a polite, professional smile. “I know of one other suspect, maybe two, who might be responsible for what you found on Gunnar’s property.”

  He arched a bushy eyebrow. “You?”

  “Yes, me.”

  “Ha!” A satisfied smile blossomed on his wrinkled face. “I knew you did it!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You just admitted to being a suspect,” he said. “Actually, sounds to me like you admitted doing it.”

  “What are you even talking about?” I gaped at him. “I told you I know of another suspect, not that I am one.”

  His smile vanished. “Who?” he finally asked.

  “I’m not quite ready to say,” I hedged. I certainly wasn’t going to give him Luke’s name, even though he had been the second person I’d been referring to when I told the sheriff about the suspects, and it still felt premature to name Lucy. The sheriff wasn’t exactly a patient man or a thorough investigator, and I worried, rightfully so, that he might hightail it out of his office and arrest her the minute I mentioned her name. Especially after he’d just accused me of indicting myself.

  “I can’t share information with you,” he announced. He polished off his slice of cake. “You know that.”

  I stayed seated in my chair, my foot tapping the floor as I tried to rein in my frustration. I needed to figure out a way to convince him to share what he knew. Because I was pretty sure I could blow the whole case open if I knew one thing.

  The sheriff stared at his empty plate and sighed. It was a completely unexpected reaction to our silence.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  He waved a hand at the plate. “No, everything is not okay,” he groused. “My food’s gone.”

  Fruitcake barely counted as food as far as I was concerned, but I mumbled something that hopefully sounded sympathetic.

  “I forgot to bring lunch today,” he grumbled. “And Cindy isn’t here so I can’t leave. This fruitcake has been here for a couple of years so at least I had that, but it wasn’t enough.” He patted his ample stomach as if to emphasize the need for more.

  I looked at him in horror. “A couple of years?” I asked. “The cake has been here for a couple of years?”

  He inclined his head with a subtle nod. “Flora Little made it before she died. Made the best darn fruitcake in Bueller County. I’ve been savoring every piece.”

  “Uh, are you sure it was still okay to eat?”

  He stared at me. “Why wouldn’t it be? It’s not like Flora went around poisoning people.”

  I decided not to mention that the lifespan of a fruitcake, although longer than most foods, was most certainly not indefinite, and probably not two years.

  Especially because inspiration struck, and I knew exactly what I needed to do.

  I bolted up from my chair and the sheriff looked at me with surprise.

  “Hang on,” I told him, and I raced out of the office and back to my car.

  I came back in holding a container of fudge.

  He eyed it suspiciously. “What is that?”

  “Fudge,” I said. “Homemade fudge.”

  His eyes lit with interest.

  “You can have the whole container,” I told him. I held it out in front of me. “If you answer a question for me.”

  He scowled.

  “You said you got a tip about the drugs being on Gunnar’s property, which was what made you get the search warrant.”

  Sheriff Lewis nodded. “There. I answered your question.”

  “That wasn’t my question,” I said sweetly. “I phrased that as a statement. You just happened to nod in agreement.”

  His scowl reappeared, deepening this time.

  “How did you find out?” I asked. “What was the tip off?”

  He didn’t respond and I lifted the lid off of the container. The smell of chocolate filled his office and his nose twitched.

  “Fine,” he said. “I got a phone call.”

  I smiled and extended the box of fudge. He reached out eagerly but as soon as his hand got close, I slapped it away. “Male or female?”

  “What?” he growled, but his eyes were glued to the square pieces of chocolate in the container.

  “Was it a male or fem
ale who called it in?”

  It was a question I didn’t even need to ask. I was pretty sure I knew who had called in the tip, but I still wanted to hear him say it. Once he did, I would be armed with enough evidence to present to Gunnar to prove that Lucy was the most likely culprit.

  “That’s more than one question,” the sheriff complained.

  I held the box just out of reach. “Do you want the fudge or not?”

  He hesitated. “Fine,” he finally said. “You wanna know who called it in. It was a man.”

  TWENTY NINE

  I sat at a table tucked toward the back of the Wicked Wich, nursing a soda.

  I’d driven there in a state of shock after visiting the sheriff.

  Because the answer he’d given me was one I had not expected.

  A man had called in the tip about the drugs on the property.

  Not a woman.

  Did that mean Lucy wasn’t involved? I didn’t know, but it certainly didn’t make the case seem as cut and dried as I’d though just an hour earlier, sitting in Toby’s parking lot.

  Dawn Putnam, the owner of the Wicked Wich, stopped at my table. “You eating?” she asked.

  I glanced at the menu board and found the burger special, a PB&B, which was a patty topped with peanut butter and bacon. I ordered that and she nodded and called it back to Mikey, who was manning the grill.

  My thoughts returned to what Sheriff Lewis had told me. A man had called in the tip. But Gunnar wouldn’t have reported himself; that was ludicrous.

  A knot formed in my stomach, but I forced myself to relax. Luke wouldn’t have called in a tip, either, not if it meant it would incriminate himself.

  Gunnar’s words came back to me, and his musings as to whether Declan might be responsible. I wanted to dismiss the thought just as quickly as it had come, but I knew I couldn’t. If I were being fair, all angles needed to be investigated thoroughly, even the ones that seemed preposterous and the ones I didn’t like.

  The chair across from me scraped against the floor and I looked up just in time to see Gunnar sliding into it.

  “Thanks for coming,” I said.