Crack Of Death (A Rainy Day Mystery Book 3) Read online

  Apparently I had two choices of people to speak to in the Bueller County sheriff’s office: one was gone and the other was the one person I didn’t want to talk to.

  I groaned, out loud.

  This was not helping me.

  I sat in my car, trying to think of what else I could do with the information bouncing around in my head. My head felt like an uncorked bottle of champagne, ready to explode, and I knew I needed to do something. Or, rather, I knew I needed to see someone. If I didn’t, I was going to explode.

  Declan’s car was in his driveway, and the front door was open. I walked up the sidewalk and could see through the screen door that the television was on, tuned in to football.

  I rang the doorbell and Declan popped up from the couch. The look of surprise and delight on his face was genuine.

  “Rainy,” he said, smiling.

  I stared at him. This was a Declan I’d never seen before. Clad in a Redskins t-shirt and black basketball shorts, a bottle of beer in his hands, he looked more like a college fraternity kid than the pastor at my local church. His hair was mussed, but in an almost artful way, as if the hair product he’d put in earlier in the day to keep his hair in place was just starting to wear off.

  “Hi,” I said, awkwardly. Memories of the hug we’d shared came rushing at me, and I realized this was the first time we’d been alone together since that afternoon in his office.

  “Hi yourself,” he said. “We missed you at church today.”

  I glanced down at the sidewalk. “I was doing yard work,” I murmured.

  He pushed open the screen door. “Come on in.”

  I stepped inside. The living room was warm, and I wondered why he had the door open instead of the air conditioning on.

  “AC is out,” he told me, reading my mind. “I have someone coming by to check it out this afternoon.” He held up his beer. “In the meantime, this works wonders for helping to cool off. Want one?”

  I didn’t even hesitate. “Yes,” I said, resisting the urge to ask him to bring me the entire six-pack.

  Declan disappeared into the kitchen and returned with another bottle. He handed it to me, and the cold, frosted glass instantly cooled my skin.

  He motioned to the couch. “Have a seat.” He plopped himself down and settled his feet on the coffee table in front of him.

  I took a sip from the bottle and tried not to stare at him. I shifted my gaze and my eyes landed on his legs. His bare legs. They were muscled, well defined, and peppered with coarse, reddish-brown hair. They were also pale, and I wondered if he simply didn’t wear shorts often enough to see the sun, or if his coloring, as fair as it was, determined that he was destined to never tan.

  “So, what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” he asked.

  I hesitated.

  His cheeks instantly colored. “Not that you need a reason to come by,” he said quickly. “I’m always happy to see you, and you’re always welcome here.”

  It was too early in our conversation for him to get flustered. I needed wise Declan, not frazzled Declan.

  “I need your help,” I told him, hoping this would give him something to focus on.

  It worked.

  “Help?”

  I nodded.

  “What’s going on?”

  I brought the bottle to my lips again and swallowed a mouthful. “The sheriff thinks I killed Greta.”

  Declan frowned. “Oh, that,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. “From the other night, right? When he came by the house?” He smiled. “I told you, he’s just a little overeager sometimes. You should be used to that by now.”

  “It’s more than that,” I insisted.

  “How?”

  I leaned back against the couch. “He’s told me not to leave town.”

  Declan’s eyes widened slightly but he managed to maintain an otherwise neutral expression. “The sheriff does take his job seriously.”

  I stared at him. “He’s been asking questions around town.”

  “Well, that is his job.”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “About me. He…he was asking at the pharmacy if I’d had any prescriptions filled lately.”

  Declan had his beer bottle halfway to his lips. He quirked a brow. “Any idea why?”

  “Because he thinks I poisoned her,” I said.

  “Why would he think that?”

  “Remember?” I said, trying to prod his memory. “He said something that night about finding ‘stuff’ in her system. He even said that she’d been poisoned.”

  “No, no, I remember that,” he interrupted. “But what proof does he have that it was you?”

  “That’s just it,” I said. “He doesn’t. But he’s trying to find something that ties me to the crime. Because he doesn’t want me here in Latney.”

  “I don’t know about that…”

  “It’s true.” I wasn’t sure about anything with this case—well, other than my own innocence—but that was one thing I knew for a fact.

  “Okay,” Declan said, slowly. He was still holding the beer, not sipping. “So if he has it out for you, that doesn’t mean he’s going to find anything to link you to Greta’s death. It doesn’t work like that. There has to be evidence.”

  In any other situation and in any other town, I would agree with him. But this was Sheriff Lewis, in Latney.

  “The thing is,” I said, pressing forward, “I have actual suspects in the case.”

  Declan eyed me skeptically. “Suspects?”

  I nodded. “And I know it might be hard for you to believe, being the pastor here and all, but there are some suspicious things, things that don’t add up. Things that the sheriff should be investigating.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “Do you want to tell me about them?”

  I did. His magic, that ability to compel me to spill my guts, was just as strong as ever. And I knew that coming over, which was exactly why I’d detoured to his house instead of heading home.

  I took a deep breath and told him what I knew about Lila and George, and I told him about my experience at the pharmacy. He listened, sipping his beer as he did so, and didn’t speak, even after I finished.

  “Well?” I said, looking at him expectantly. “What do you think?”

  He was holding the bottle with both hands now, his fingers picking at the label. “I think you have some interesting information.”

  I actually smiled. Interesting was one word for it.

  “And I think you should probably tell the sheriff.”

  I made a face. “I know what I should do,” I said. “The problem is, I don’t think he’s going to do anything with it. Knowing his history and my luck, he’ll probably twist my words and use them against me.”

  He chuckled. “I doubt that,” he said. “And, to be clear, I don’t know that anything you’ve found out is hard proof that either Lila or George were involved. But it’s information the sheriff should probably have.”

  “It was information the sheriff should have probably found himself,” I muttered.

  “True,” he admitted. “But he didn’t.”

  I slumped against the cushions. “He’s the most inept investigator I’ve ever met.”

  “Sure,” Declan said. “But you’ve also spent a career involved with investigating cases.”

  “I didn’t—”

  He held up his hand. “I know,” he said. “You didn’t investigate cases. But you were involved with them, at least on the periphery, for several years. You worked with people who were good at what they did. At least I assume they were good, otherwise they wouldn’t have stayed in business.”

  I nodded grudgingly. He had a point.

  “So when you come here and see how the sheriff does things, it’s probably frustrating. But he doesn’t have the experience you do.”

  I sighed. “Are you telling me I need to cut him a little slack?”

  Declan smiled. “I’m telling you that you need to tell him what you know,” he said simply. “Gi
ve him the details, and then give him the opportunity to do something with it. That’s all.”

  My sigh was deeper, longer this time. “What if I don’t want to?”

  “Well,” Declan said, bringing the bottle back to his lips, “then I guess you remain his prime suspect.”

  I glared at him and he chuckled again.

  “Just tell him,” he urged. “What do you have to lose?”

  I didn’t answer.

  I knew what I had to lose.

  Everything.

  TWENTY SEVEN

  I didn’t want to take Declan’s advice.

  But I did.

  As soon as I got home from his house, I poured myself a glass of wine and dialed the sheriff’s office again. This time, it rang five times before rolling over to the answering machine.

  A wave of disappointment washed over me. I’d steeled myself to make the call, and I was prepared to tell the sheriff what I knew. But that feeling was tenuous, and I knew that it could disappear at a moment’s notice, especially if I went to bed and woke up the next morning without reaching him.

  The message finished and a beep sounded, and I left a message before I could change my mind.

  “Hello, this is Rainy Day. I…I have some information about Greta’s case.”

  I ended the call but held on to the phone in my left hand. I took a sip of wine and almost spilled it when my phone began to vibrate.

  I answered.

  “You have information?” the sheriff barked, not even bothering to say hello.

  I set my glass of wine on the coffee table. “Yes, I wanted to—”

  “I’m in town,” he said shortly. “I’ll be right over.”

  The line went dead and I frowned.

  I didn’t want the sheriff coming over. I’d wanted to tell him what I knew over the phone.

  I jumped up from the couch and began tidying up the living room. It wasn’t a complete mess, but there were papers on the coffee table, and a pair of socks I’d discarded by the front door. I grabbed the broom and swept the floors and had just stowed it and the dustpan back in the kitchen when a sharp knock sounded on my front door.

  I pulled open the door and the sheriff was waiting for me.

  “Evening,” he said, tipping his hat.

  I glanced at the sky. Somehow, day had turned into evening. I didn’t know when it had happened, but considering all that had transpired that day, it shouldn’t have surprised me.

  “You didn’t have to come over on a Sunday,” I said. I waited for him to step inside. “I could have told you everything over the phone.”

  He grunted as he walked by me and into the living room. Actually, he sort of strutted, his hands hooked in his belt loops as he positioned himself in the middle of the room.

  He turned to look at me. “Figured it made more sense to hear it in person.”

  I frowned. “Well, okay,” I said. I took a seat on the couch and waited for him to seat himself, but he remained standing. “So I have some information about Greta’s…about Greta.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, “you said that. What is it?”

  I took a deep breath, and crossed my fingers that he would be receptive to what I was about to tell him. “I…I’ve learned some things I think you might want to know about. If you don’t already,” I added.

  His eyes narrowed. “Like what?”

  “I found out that Lila and Greta had gotten in a big fight the day before she died,” I said. “A neighbor heard them out in Greta’s front yard. And…and George has a key to Greta’s house. He was there earlier today and when I asked him, he told me that he’d gone over a couple of times since she died, and that he’d let himself in while she was alive.”

  The sheriff’s mouth dropped open.

  “I know.” I nodded, relaxing as I realized he was actually listening to what I was telling him. “I’m not saying that either of them are involved, but it might be worth looking into.”

  The sheriff’s face contorted and I suddenly felt uneasy.

  “You mean you brought me out here for more false allegations?” he bellowed.

  “Excuse me?”

  He stomped his foot on the floor. “I came here for a confession!”

  “A what?” I said.

  “A confession. You were supposed to confess to Greta’s murder!”

  My heart began to jackhammer in my chest. “Confess? I didn’t do anything!”

  “So you’re telling me Greta overdosed on her medication all by herself?”

  “She what?” This was the first time I’d heard this.

  “You heard me,” he yelled. “You were at the pharmacy yesterday. Your prints are all over her house. And you were there the day she died! What more evidence do we need?”

  “More than that,” I retorted. My heart was still beating wildly, but something was happening. Instead of being scared, I was angry. Livid, even. “I have given you two potential suspects, two people to look at who actually have a motive, and all you want to do is arrest me. Even though I didn’t know Greta, and even though you have nothing—nothing!—that ties me to the crime. How did you even become sheriff?”

  His eyes widened and he gasped. “Are you questioning my abilities as a law enforcement professional?”

  “Yes,” I said bluntly. “I am.”

  I was still sitting on the couch, my back and shoulders straight, and he took a step forward, looming in front of me.

  “I’ve been the sheriff in these parts for forty years!”

  This actually surprised me, because based on his track record, he should have been relieved of his duties years ago.

  I was about to say this when another knock sounded on the door. The sheriff whirled around, his hands now on his hips.

  I slipped off the couch and to his right side, mostly so he wouldn’t be tempted to tackle me to the ground and wrestle handcuffs on me.

  I opened the door and Heidi, Greta’s daughter, was standing there. I would have been hard pressed to decide who looked angrier: her or the sheriff.

  “Can I help you?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she announced crisply. “You can let my mother rest in peace!”

  “What?”

  “You heard me,” she said, her voice as hard as steel. “I’ve heard what you’ve been doing.”

  The sheriff appeared at my side. “What seems to be the problem, Heidi? Do you have anything to report about Miss Day and your mother’s case?”

  I gaped at her. Was she seriously going to accuse me of murdering her mother?

  Heidi shifted her attention to Sheriff Lewis. “I do, indeed,” she said.

  “Now, wait a minute,” I began, but Heidi silenced me with a hard stare.

  “You are meddling in affairs that aren’t yours,” she said, her tone accusing.

  “Meddling?” I repeated. At least she hadn’t accused me of murder.

  She nodded emphatically. “I know that you’ve been snooping around. I just had a visit with Savannah, and she told me that you were asking questions about my mother.”

  “I was,” I said. “And she told me that your mother and Lila had gotten in a fight the day before she died.”

  Heidi’s eyes were glazed with anger. “I don’t care!”

  “You don’t care?”

  “No,” she said. “I do not care. Because Mother is where she belongs.”

  “But what if she isn’t supposed to…be there?” I asked haltingly. “What if someone sent her on her way a little prematurely?”

  “Like you,” the sheriff muttered under his breath. But he was keeping his distance and he hadn’t broken out the handcuffs yet. That was a small victory.

  “She is with Daddy,” Heidi said. “That’s all that matters.”

  “You don’t care if she died under mysterious circumstances?”

  “I care that she is with her husband. For all eternity.”

  Heidi was a certifiable loon.

  She jabbed her finger in the air, within a couple of inches of my
face, and I immediately shrank back. “So keep your nose out of my mother’s business, you hear?”

  With that, she pivoted and flounced back down the stairs and to her waiting car.

  I sagged against the doorframe, not sure what to make of what had just happened.

  The sheriff cleared his throat. “Just because she isn’t digging around for details doesn’t mean I’m gonna sit by and do nothin’.”

  I whirled around. His pipe had magically appeared and it sat in the center of his mouth.

  “I don’t expect you to,” I said evenly. “But what I do expect you to do is investigate the leads I’ve given you.”

  “Don’t you go telling me how to do my job,” he growled.

  I stepped to the side and motioned toward the porch. “Leave, please.”

  He glared at me. “What?”

  “You heard me,” I said. “I am asking you to leave. You are no longer welcome in my home.”

  “I have some more questions for you,” he said. “And I might need to take a look around.”

  “Then I suggest you get a search warrant,” I said. I nudged him toward the door. “Because I’m done talking to you, and I’m asking you to leave.”

  He sputtered. “But…but…”

  “No buts, Sheriff.” I smiled again. “You might not be familiar with the law, but I am.”

  And with that, I gave him a gentle shove and pushed him out the door.

  TWENTY EIGHT

  Sheriff Lewis didn’t break down my door with a battering ram and he didn’t return with a search warrant.

  But I stayed up all night, waiting, just in case.

  I couldn’t believe nearly a week had transpired since finding Greta unresponsive in her home. And I really couldn’t believe that I had become a central piece to solving the mystery surrounding her death. My goal was simply to figure out what had happened. The sheriff’s goal was far different, as he’d demonstrated yet again when he’d shown up at the house.

  I still couldn’t believe that he’d shown up expecting a confession. No wonder he’d been so eager to come over.

  And I still couldn’t believe that Heidi had no desire to know what had happened in her mother’s death. I mulled this over as the evening turned to night, and as night stretched into daybreak. I’d brewed a pot of coffee around midnight, resigned to the fact that I wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon.