When The Rooster Kills (A Rainy Day Mystery Book 2) Page 14

  The church door was closed but unlocked. I pushed it open, and the smell of lemon wood polish, heavy in the air, assaulted my nostrils. There was someone in the sanctuary playing the organ, and I smiled, thinking of the little old lady I’d seen before at Sunday service, pounding the keys, her feet barely able to reach the pedals. I wondered if she walked to church, too.

  I didn’t peek into the sanctuary but headed instead to Declan’s office.

  His door was wide open and he was seated behind his desk, poring over a book opened in front of him. His reddish hair was slightly mussed and he had his reading glasses on. I watched him for a minute, the way his eyes scanned the pages, his pencil tapping the tablet sitting next to him as he read.

  Softly, I cleared my throat.

  He glanced up. “Rainy.” He couldn’t hide the surprise in his voice.

  “I don’t mean to disturb you.”

  He set the pencil down and took off his glasses. “Not a disturbance at all.” He motioned toward me. “Have a seat.”

  I stepped into his office and sank into the chair across from him.

  “What brings you here?”

  It was a simple question, but I didn’t know how to answer it.

  Why was I in his office? In his church?

  Because I was frustrated. Depressed. Confused.

  “I just…” I stopped.

  He waited patiently, a smile on his face.

  He was so kind. So friendly. So…soothing.

  He was like a pair of favorite jeans, that once-in-a-lifetime pair you find that fits perfectly, the kind you wear until the denim softens up and pulling them on is like wearing a second skin. He was like fresh chocolate chip cookies, melty and warm, the very idea of them baking in the oven blanketing you in a wave of comfort and nostalgia.

  “I’m having a hard day,” I told him.

  “A hard day.” He nodded sympathetically. “I think we all have those, don’t we?” He paused. “Is there anything you want to talk about?”

  There he was, weaving his pastorly magic over me. Because just like that, I spilled. Told him everything.

  For ten minutes, he listened as I told him about Mikey and Shawn and Tori and Vivian. He didn’t interrupt and his expression didn’t change.

  When I was finished, he waited a beat and then said, “That’s an awful lot to be carrying around.”

  I took a deep breath. “It is. It really is.”

  “And you spoke to Sheriff Lewis about all of this?”

  My hands were folded in my lap and I wrung them, massaging my knuckles. “I tried. He didn’t want to listen.”

  He nodded, frowning. “That must have been frustrating.” Then, “I’m glad you feel comfortable telling me this. These things, I mean.”

  The funny thing was, I did. I mean, there was a small part of me that needed to tell someone—anyone—simply because I felt like an overblown balloon, ready to burst. But the other part of me knew that Declan would listen. He might offer advice, too, but first and foremost, he would listen.

  “Now what?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. He had picked up the pencil and was tapping it against his thigh. He was wearing a pair of tan slacks and a blue button-down shirt. The color matched his eyes, or maybe it was just the way the sunlight was streaming in through the window, but I’d never seen his eyes look more blue than they did right then.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “There isn’t anyone else to tell, is there?”

  He didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. I wasn’t really looking for one.

  “I just needed to tell someone,” I said. “And be validated, I guess.”

  “Your feelings are always valid,” he said gently.

  It was a nice sentiment, but I sort of wanted my theories to be validated, too.

  “What do you think?”

  He blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “Do you think Mikey did it? Do you think the sheriff is right to suspect him?”

  The pencil stopped tapping. Declan made a sound, something like a soft sigh. “I’m a pastor, Rainy. My job is to guide people to God, not solve crimes.”

  I glanced down at my hands. My knuckles were red from rubbing them so vigorously. “Solving crimes isn’t my job, either,” I said.

  “No,” he said, agreeing, “but I would venture to say it might be a hobby.”

  I looked up. He was watching me, a neutral expression on his face.

  “You think I do this on purpose?” I asked. “Go around looking for crimes and mysteries?”

  “No,” he said again. “I think these things simply cross your path, the same way they do everyone else. But you catch scent of them and you tend to immediately grab on.”

  “So I’m like a bloodhound,” I muttered.

  He smiled. “No, not like a bloodhound. Like someone who is…curious. And who cares about the people around her.”

  I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. I was pretty sure he was trying to politely tell me that I was nosy. Too nosy for my own good.

  “It’s obvious to me that you care about Mikey,” Declan continued. “And you have reason to believe that the sheriff has his attention focused in the wrong place. You’ve had interactions with other people whom you think might be involved in Leslie’s disappearance, or at least know more than they are letting on. There is nothing wrong with either of the scenarios motivating you to remain involved in the case.”

  Case.

  I never thought my name would be attached to that word after I moved to Latney. Back in Arlington, handling cases was an integral part of my daily existence. Not that I solved them, of course: Mack Mercy took care of that. But I was the one doing the paperwork, making phone calls, arranging Mack’s schedule. All around cases.

  Even after moving to Latney and dealing with the bones and the fire, it had felt like those were anomalies, especially once it became clear that Davis Konrath was the one responsible. I hadn’t sought out that particular case; it had literally been dumped on my property.

  The situation with Leslie was different. I’d gotten involved at Sophia’s request, to help a friend. I’d wanted to reach out, to be more involved with the townspeople, to establish my presence here as more than just a newcomer, an outsider.

  But it hadn’t worked. I’d gotten nowhere with Leslie’s case. I hadn’t been able to help Vivian find her stepsister. And even when I did discover information that might help determine Leslie’s whereabouts—details that might incriminate her own sister, if her attitude about the disappearance was any indication—I’d been summarily dismissed by the one person in charge of the investigation.

  I was a complete and utter failure.

  I knew what I needed to do. Call it a day. Throw in the towel. Head back to the farm and check in on my chickens and weed my garden and plant more flowers and start remodeling the guesthouse. Keep myself busy.

  And keep to myself.

  “Rainy?”

  I refocused my attention back on Declan.

  “Are you okay?”

  Quickly, I nodded. “Yep. I’m fine. Just…thinking.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” he said. “And there’s nothing wrong with being concerned about Leslie’s well being and for your friends here in Latney. Those are all good things. Trust me.”

  “I guess.” I knew I sounded down. I forced a smile on my face and motioned to the pad of paper in front of him. “What are you working on? This week’s sermon?”

  He shook his head. “No. This is…something extra.”

  “Extra?” I wondered what constituted an “extra” in the life of a clergyman. “Like for a wedding or a…a funeral?”

  “No, nothing like that.” He ran his finger along the edge of the pad of paper, riffling the pages. “There’s an association meeting. An association of pastors. I’ve been asked to give a talk.”

  “Well, that sounds like quite an honor.”

  He shrugged. “They need people to speak, and I volunteered.”

  “What’
s the topic?”

  “Tending a New Flock. How to transition to a new church.”

  “You have some good personal experience to draw from.”

  “That, I do,” he said, nodding. But he didn’t smile; he looked a little forlorn, actually.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked. “With the speech?”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” he said, shaking his head again. He picked up his glasses and settled them back on the bridge of his nose. “I just…I hate going to these things alone.”

  “Alone?”

  Declan nodded. “It’s an evening get-together. Spouses are welcome to attend, and usually do. And since I don’t have one…well, let’s just say that it’s sometimes hard to be a bachelor in this profession.”

  “I can see how that might be hard. Are there other single pastors at these meetings?”

  “Not usually.” He grinned. “Mostly because there aren’t any.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, nothing to be done about it. And it’s only one evening every few months. I can do it. I will do it.” He sounded like he was giving himself a pep talk.

  “Can only spouses attend?” I asked suddenly.

  His head was inclined down and he looked up at me, above his glasses. “Well, no.”

  “So I could go with you?” I asked, quickly adding, “If you want me to, I mean?”

  His cheeks colored. “You certainly would be welcome to attend but—”

  “When is it?”

  “Next Wednesday,” Declan said. “But—”

  “You don’t want to go alone and I need to get my mind off this ca—this situation,” I told him firmly. “We could kill two birds with one stone.” And then, because that sounded completely heartless and calculating, I said, “If you want my company, that is.”

  His cheeks were fire engine red now. “I’d certainly love to have your company at the meeting. I’d love your company anywhere, any time. I mean, not that I want to see you all the time. I mean, I do, but I know you have other interests and other things to occupy your time. Other people, even. But—”

  I rescued him. “I understand what you mean,” I said, smiling. “So would you like me to come with you?”

  It was probably a bad idea. I knew Declan Murphy harbored feelings for me. To what extent was still a mystery. What I didn’t know was how I felt about him, and about him having those feelings toward me.

  But I did know something.

  Declan Murphy was kind. He was a good friend, and he was always there when I needed someone to listen to me. When I needed reassurance. When I needed to know that I wasn’t a stranger to everyone in this town.

  The least I could do was give a little of that back to him.

  TWENTY NINE

  Lunch was calling my name by the time I got back home. It was just after noon but I felt like I’d eaten breakfast hours ago. I was sure the stressful nature of my morning—my confrontation with the sheriff, in particular—was a contributing factor.

  I kicked off my shoes the minute I stepped inside and made a beeline to the kitchen. The smell of coffee still lingered in the air, along with the scent of overripe bananas sitting on the counter.

  I glanced at the thermostat. It was only 72 degrees in the house, and the air conditioning hadn’t kicked in. I could spend the day holed up in the kitchen, cooking and baking and doing everything I could to take my mind off of Leslie and Declan and everything else that was crowding my mind.

  I slapped together a quick sandwich, using the last of the deli turkey in the fridge. I added this to my shopping list, along with a few other things I knew I was low on. I wolfed the sandwich down, set the dishes in the sink, and pulled out the ingredients for banana bread. I had blueberries, too, and decided to double the batch of batter I was mixing. I could keep one loaf of bread out for breakfast this week and put the other in the freezer for later.

  Satisfied that I was being productive and not wallowing in self-pity or wasting time on fruitless sleuthing, I set to work. I started preheating the oven, turned on the speaker on the counter and set my playlist to shuffle. Soon, the sounds of the Beatles crooning mixed with the gentle whir of my mixer as I beat together the ingredients.

  I folded the bananas into one bowl, blueberries in the other, and poured the mixtures into two greased loaf pans. I opened the oven door.

  And frowned.

  I glanced at the dial. The LED display read 375, but the oven was cold.

  I set the pan I was holding back down on the counter and pushed a couple of buttons on the oven display. They beeped and flashed, so I knew there was power. But the oven wouldn’t turn on.

  I sighed. I didn’t know the first thing about appliances. I mean, I knew how to turn them on and how to operate them, but if something went wrong? I couldn’t even consult instruction manuals without scratching my head in frustration.

  Despite this, I dug out the large plastic bag that housed the instruction manuals for all of the kitchen appliances. Len Konrath might have been a grumpy old man, but he had managed to turn over his house in pretty good order. The manuals had been left on the kitchen counter, just like the manuals for the heater and HVAC unit had been pinned to the wall in the unfinished basement.

  I thumbed through the one for the stove, locating the Troubleshooting section. It read like Chinese to me.

  I sighed again and shoved the bowls of batter into the fridge.

  I had two options. Three, actually.

  I could toss the batter out and decide never to cook or bake again. This seemed like a bad idea, both for my budget and my overall health. I needed to eat, didn’t I?

  I could call an appliance repairman and have them come out and take a look. However, this was Latney and I knew I could be waiting for days for someone to show up. And this was assuming there was someone nearby who actually performed this type of work.

  Or I could call Gunnar.

  It was a no-brainer.

  I grabbed my phone and called my neighbor.

  He answered on the second ring. “Well, that didn’t take long,” he said.

  “What?” I still had the manual out, was still trying to make sense of the diagrams and the suggestions.

  “For you to call. To make your move.”

  My mouth dropped open and I choked out my next words. “Uh, that’s not why I’m calling.”

  Silence. And then, “It isn’t?”

  I quickly explained the problem with the oven.

  He didn’t let me finish. “I’ll be right over,” he said, and hung up.

  Five minutes later, Gunnar was at the kitchen door, looking as handsome and rugged as ever in his standard uniform of jeans and t-shirt. Today, he wore a John Deere shirt made of soft, heather green material that brought out the matching color in his eyes.

  If he was embarrassed at his assumption regarding the reason for my call, he didn’t show it. He marched over to the oven and squatted down to take a look inside.

  “Didn’t warm up at all, huh?”

  I shook my head. “No, but it definitely has power. The displays are working and it was beeping and stuff when I tried setting the timer.”

  He stood up, wrapped his arms around the stove and pulled it away from the wall. He checked the connections back there, wiggling the cords, then pulled the power cord out of the wall before reinserting it.

  “Your breaker panel is in the basement, right?”

  I nodded. I’d seen it exactly once, during the home inspection. The basement was not finished and appeared to house all of the cobwebs in Bueller County, so it wasn’t a place I frequented.

  He disappeared down the hall. I heard the door to the basement creak open, then close. Footsteps sounded as he descended the wooden staircase. A minute later, I heard him making his way back up.

  “Alright,” he said, returning to the stove. “Let’s try it now.”

  I set the timer and pushed the preheat button. They responded as they had before, blinking and beeping at the appropriate times. Gunnar had the door
to the oven open and he was crouched down again, his hand inside the oven this time.

  He glanced at me, grinning. “Think we got heat.”

  I crouched down next to him, trying not to notice how good he smelled. Why did he have to smell so…so manly?

  I extended my hand and sure enough, I felt waves of heat as the coils inside began to glow a soft red.

  “How did you fix it?” I asked.

  He stood and shrugged. “Just reset the breakers. The storm yesterday probably tripped something.”

  “But it had power,” I said, pointing to the display on the stove. “And isn’t it plugged into one breaker?”

  “Yep, but sometimes you can lose half the line without tripping the breaker,” he said. “Especially when it’s storming.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about, but he said it with confidence so I took his word for it. All I cared about was the fact that I had a working oven again and that if it happened again, I might be able to fix it by simply resetting a breaker. If I didn’t have a heart attack navigating the cobwebs that stood in my way.

  “Well, thank you,” I said. “That was an easy fix.”

  He grinned. “Sure thing.”

  We stood next to each other, staring at the oven. Heat pulsed from the open door and into the kitchen. I closed it.

  “Anything else I can help you with?” Gunnar asked.

  I shook my head. “Nope, I’m good. Thanks. And thanks for coming over right away. I was planning to bake today and had already mixed everything up.”

  He nodded. “Happy to help.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and cocked his head. “So…nothing else you need?”

  I fought back a smile.

  It was killing him, waiting for me to make my move. I knew this like I knew my own name. And he was probably kicking himself for making that promise to me.

  “Nope,” I said innocently. “I’m good. Just gonna finish baking.”

  He studied me. “You making stuff just for you or…?”

  “Yes and no,” I said. I grabbed the prepared pans and held them up. “One is for now and one is for later.”