Crack Of Death (A Rainy Day Mystery Book 3) Page 3

  “Sheriff?” I said uncertainly, practically tiptoeing as I joined them in the living room. “Is everything okay?”

  He whirled to face me. His face was contorted in anger, and his droopy white moustache tilted downward, emphasizing the frown he wore. “Of course everything is not okay! We have a dead woman here!”

  I shrank back. I knew that, of course. “I know,” I told him. “I just meant…well, you just seemed…”

  His bushy white eyebrows lifted. “Seemed what? Surprised? Shocked? Well I am, gosh darn it. We don’t find dead people in Latney!”

  I wanted to remind him about the bones I’d found on my property. And then I wanted to ask why he said that people didn’t die here. Was there some magic fountain of youth I didn’t know about? Was it a part of the city code that people had to leave Latney when they were ready to die? His comment made no sense.

  But, I remembered, this was Sheriff Lewis. And more often than not, he didn’t actually make sense.

  “Tell us what happened,” the other man suggested.

  He was closer to my age, at least twenty years younger than the sheriff, and he sported a balding head and a slightly rounded stomach. He also offered a supportive smile, which went much farther in calming my nerves than the sheriff’s rant just a minute earlier.

  I told him what had happened, sparing no detail. The man, who I assumed to be a deputy of some sort, pulled out a notepad and jotted down a few things as I spoke. If the sheriff was listening, he made no indication that he was doing so. My gaze flitted to him every so often as I relayed the details of my visit. He was no longer glued in place, but he’d only stepped a couple of inches closer to where Greta sat. I didn’t know what I expected him to do, but looking helplessly at her hadn’t been at the top of my list.

  “That must have been quite the shock for you,” the deputy said.

  I nodded. “It was.”

  The sheriff cleared his throat. “Melvin is on his way.”

  Melvin Clark, the medical examiner, the man who’d also examined the remains on my own property. I knew bringing him in was standard operating procedure, but this somehow made it feel even more real.

  “And then what?” I asked.

  The sheriff narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

  I wrung my hands. I didn’t really know what I meant. I was still completely discombobulated by the discovery and having to call it in. All I wanted to do was go home and forget the day had ever happened. Mentally, I cursed Declan for guilting me into helping, but then I stopped. He hadn’t asked and he hadn’t tried to persuade me: that was all on me. I’d made the decision to volunteer. And even though I wanted to go crawl into a hole or find someplace to have the last few hours of my memory wiped clean, I knew exactly what I’d be doing the minute I left Greta’s house: going back to St. Simon’s to deliver the news to Declan.

  I was spared from having to answer because someone jostled their way down the hallway and into the living room. An older man, probably close to the same age as the sheriff, and holding a black leather bag in one hand and a cane in the other.

  He hobbled into the living room, leaning heavily on his cane. He nodded at the two men. “Donny, Teddy, can’t say it’s good to see you,” he said gravely. I immediately recognized his deep, gravelly voice. “Not under these circumstances.”

  So the deputy was Teddy, the man who’d done surveillance on Mikey during Leslie’s disappearance. My opinion of him dropped considerably.

  The elderly man’s steely gaze turned to me. “And you are?”

  I stood up straight. “Rainy. Rainy Day.”

  He couldn’t hide the flash of recognition in his eyes. “Oh, I see,” was all he said.

  He limped past us and stopped in front of Greta. With some effort, he knelt down and fumbled with her sweater sleeve, lifting it enough to feel for her pulse. He then unzipped his bag and produced a stethoscope, which he applied to the same spot. He listened for a moment and the rest of us collectively held our breath.

  He turned to look at us, his expression somber. “I’m afraid she has passed.”

  This was not news to me, but the sheriff and deputy standing next to me inhaled sharply over the announcement.

  Melvin pushed himself back into a standing position. “I’ll go get what I need.” He hobbled past us, back toward the front door.

  I presumed he meant a stretcher or something to move Greta. I wondered if he’d brought anyone along to assist him. He didn’t look like he was in any condition to lift her.

  I heard footsteps on the sidewalk, quick ones, and I assumed it was whomever Melvin had brought along to help. My eyes widened in surprise when Declan hurried into the living room.

  “Rainy?” He looked at me with concern.

  I couldn’t help it. I launched myself at him. He engulfed me in a supportive hug, patting my back. “It’s okay,” he said, his hand tapping almost rhythmically.

  “I don’t know what happened,” I said. “I…I came in and she…she was…”

  He shushed me. “I know, I know. I’m so sorry you had to find her like that.”

  I lifted my head off his shoulder. “Why are you here?” I asked. “How did you know?”

  “Dorie let me know,” he said. When I looked at him, puzzled, he added, “She’s the 911 dispatcher who took the call.”

  “And…and she called you?” I wasn’t sure, but part of me thought that relaying that type of information to a person who was not next of kin violated all kinds of privacy laws.

  He nodded. “Greta was a member of the church. Dorie thought I should know.”

  I stole a glance at the sheriff and deputy, worried at what I might see from them with this bit of news. But they both looked nonplussed; Teddy was even nodding approvingly.

  “Oh.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “You’re probably pretty worked up by all of this,” Declan said. “And rightfully so. Do you want me to take you home or are you okay to drive?”

  My eyes welled up. He had just lost one of his flock, someone he’d presumably known fairly well, and he was still taking the time to make sure that I was okay.

  “Now, hold on,” Sheriff Lewis said, taking a step toward us. “Miss Day isn’t quite free to go yet.”

  I frowned. “I’m not?”

  The sheriff shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  His eyes narrowed to slits. “Because I have a few questions for you.”

  FIVE

  “I answered all of your questions.”

  The sheriff fished his pipe out of his chest pocket. “Well, I have some more.”

  I’d already told Sheriff Lewis everything I knew.

  “Sheriff, can’t this wait?” Declan asked. He’d let go of me but he was still standing so close, our shoulders were almost touching. “She’s been through quite a bit today.”

  The sheriff grunted. “Not as much as poor Greta.”

  I wasn’t sure exactly what that was supposed to mean. I mean, of course I was relieved to still be alive, and I felt horrible that Greta was not, but it felt like an odd statement, as if the sheriff knew that Greta had suffered in some way prior to her death. And, yes, I guess death was quite a bit to go through, but he was acting as though he knew Greta had somehow suffered on her journey out of this world. I had no idea if she had or not, but from the look of things, she seemed to have passed fairly peacefully.

  “Come on,” Declan said to me with a smile. “Let’s get you home.”

  “Not so fast.” The sheriff cleared his throat.

  Declan cast an annoyed look at the man standing next to us. It was the first time I’d witnessed anything like this from him. “This can’t wait?”

  “No, it cannot.” He planted the pipe between his lips and withdrew a pad of paper from his back pocket. “Miss Day, how are you acquainted with the deceased?”

  I sighed. “I’ve already told you. And him,” I said, nodding toward Teddy. “Twice.”

  “You�
�ve never seen Greta Hedley before today?”

  “No.” And then because I knew my memory wasn’t great and my recall of faces I’d seen in town was even worse, I added, “Not that I know of, anyway.”

  The sheriff eyed me speculatively before jotting something down. “Any reason to want her dead?”

  I gaped at him. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. Do you harbor any ill feelings toward the deceased?”

  “I just told you I didn't even know her!” A shiver ran down my spine as his question sank in. “Are you suggesting that I…killed her?”

  He cleared his throat again. “No, no, of course not. Just asking routine questions.”

  I’d never been involved in a death investigation before, but I’d bet a thousand bucks that most law enforcement didn’t ask bystanders if they’d wanted a person dead—especially an elderly woman who by all accounts looked to have passed peacefully in her sleep.

  Declan had had enough. He reached for my hand and gently tugged me toward the front door. “I am taking her home,” he told the sheriff. “You can ask your questions later.”

  I didn’t expect this to work. After all, the sheriff could be downright ornery at times. But he simply nodded at Declan before returning to scribbling on his pad, his pipe shifting over his lips as he moved it from side to side. Teddy offered a small, apologetic smile. He was standing with his back to Greta, his arms folded over his chest, as if he thought assuming this position was in some way guarding her.

  I let Declan lead me down the hallway, toward the front door, where Melvin was attempting to maneuver a raised stretcher up the sidewalk. A county van, not an ambulance, was parked outside next to the two squad cars and my own car. Declan’s white Prius was parked a little further up the road.

  Melvin wasn’t having much luck with the stretcher. He held on tight with his left hand, his cane in his right, attempting to steer it along the sidewalk. I questioned again how he was going to get Greta on there, and hoped that the sheriff and Teddy would feel inclined to help him.

  Declan noticed, too. He looked at me, squeezed my hand and then released it. “Can I give you a hand with that, sir?”

  Melvin gave him a grateful smile. “You truly are a godsend, aren’t you, Pastor?”

  Declan turned to me. “Wait right here. I’ll give you a ride home as soon as I’m done.”

  “I don’t need one,” I said. I straightened my purse on my shoulder and smoothed back my hair. “I’m fine, really.”

  His expression clouded. “Are you sure? It’s really not a problem to—”

  I cut him off. “No, really. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

  “If you’re sure,” he said, his eyes searching mine.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Okay.” He commandeered the stretcher from Melvin, who sagged with relief over having been relieved of that particular duty. “I’ll be sure to check in on you later, see how you’re doing.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I insisted. It wasn’t a lie; more like wishful thinking. If I said it and thought it enough times, it would eventually manifest, right?

  “I’ll be out of here just as soon as I get this where he needs it,” he told me. “So I’ll be checking in on you before you know it.”

  As soon as he said this, Sheriff Lewis and Teddy exited through the front door. The sheriff brushed past me, a glower on his face, and slapped Melvin on the back as he passed him. “We’ll let you take it from here, buddy,” he said.

  I watched as they got in their squad cars and left, and I knew Declan was wrong about one thing.

  He wasn’t going to be leaving any time soon.

  Because I was pretty sure he was going to be helping Melvin with a lot more than just getting the stretcher inside.

  SIX

  I knew it was five o’clock somewhere.

  At least that was what I told myself as I poured a glass of wine the minute I stepped inside my house.

  I took my full glass and walked into the living room, sinking down onto the couch. Cool air pumped out of the vent, and I shivered. Although, if I were being honest with myself, I wasn’t sure if it was the temperature or the situation I’d just come from that had made the goose bumps pop.

  I felt horrible about Greta. I felt uneasy about my conversation with the sheriff. And I felt bad for Declan, leaving him there with old Milton, but I also was sad for him because he’d lost a parishioner and I hadn’t been terribly sensitive to that. I’d sort of been focused on myself.

  I sighed and sipped my wine. It was one of my favorite merlots, an earthy, balanced vintage that tasted of berries and spice. I tried to concentrate on the flavor, on savoring the taste of it on my tongue, but my mind wasn’t having it. There were other, bigger things to think about.

  I closed my eyes. I could always try meditating again. After all, the breathing techniques I’d recalled at Greta’s house had helped calm me down. Maybe I could pull some of the other things I’d learned, too.

  The doorbell rang and my eyes flew open.

  Meditating would apparently have to wait.

  With my glass in hand, I padded to the door. I had a sneaking suspicion it might be Declan. He’d said he was going to stop by to check on me.

  But it wasn’t Declan.

  It was Gunnar Forsythe, my next-door neighbor.

  “Miss Rainy Day,” he said, tipping the brim of his baseball hat and giving me a smile.

  Gunnar was definitely a sight for sore eyes. As usual. His sandy brown hair had gotten a little longer over the summer months, the lengthier locks peeking out from under his hat and tickling his neck. His face was tanned, the result of spending most of his waking hours outside. I was sure the trips he’d taken over the last couple of months—camping and fishing trips—hadn’t hurt in that department, either.

  I greeted him with a smile. “Gunnar.” I opened the door wider and stepped back, inviting him inside.

  He took the hint. His work boots—scuffed and worn, but clean—clomped on the wood floor as he walked into the center of the living room. I motioned toward the sofa and he sat down. He reached for his hat and took it off.

  “Rough day?” he asked me.

  I frowned. Had the news really traveled that fast? I knew the gossip mill here operated at record speed, but Gunnar wasn’t usually a part of it.

  He must have noticed my expression because he looked pointedly at my glass of wine and said, “Figured you to be more of an evening drinker.”

  I glanced at my wine glass. “Oh. This.” I took a sip. “Yeah, it’s been a rough day.”

  “Wanna talk about it?”

  “After I finish this,” I told him. Maybe I’d be calmed down enough by then to relay the events at Greta’s without having my blood pressure spike sky high.

  He grinned. “Fair enough.” He was holding his hat in both hands and he started twirling it absently.

  “How’ve you been?” I asked. “Feels like forever since I’ve seen you.”

  It really did. The summer had flown by and we’d barely seen each other. I thought back to that night in June when I’d walked over to his house with a loaf of blueberry bread. I’d just come back from finding Leslie, the missing woman whose disappearance had caused an uproar in town, and I’d headed over to ask Gunnar to dinner. We’d danced around the issue for a while prior to that evening, and he’d gotten miffed that I’d gone to an event with Declan. So I’d downed some wine to up my courage and marched over there, determined to confront my growing attraction to him head-on. We’d made plans for the following week.

  But our dinner had never materialized. Not because either of us backed out, but because life had gotten in the way. Gunnar was a volunteer for the local fire department and the night of our dinner, he’d been called to a blaze just minutes before he was due over. Our attempts at rescheduling had been comical: Laura had come for another visit, Gunnar had gone out of town to visit his own daughter, and then I’d gone to Arlington to visit friends, and he’d left tw
ice for camping and fishing trips. It wasn’t that we didn’t see each other, but our interactions had been limited to friendly exchanges in the driveway or garden, or when he ‘d come over to help repair a fence or a broken hinge on the barn.

  Sitting there with him now, just a few feet away from each other on the couch, stirred up feelings I thought I’d tucked away. I’d spent the last couple of months blissfully focused on being friends, because that was all either of us had time for. But here he was, in my living room, sitting next to me, looking handsome and interested.

  And I was right back to not knowing what to do with it. With any of it.

  “I’ve been good,” Gunnar said. His eyes were on me, a friendly smile on his face. “Busy. Sort of glad summer is winding down and life can get back to normal.”

  “Me, too,” I said. I cradled the glass of wine, and then realized I was being rude by not offering a glass to Gunnar. I held it up. “Can I get you some?”

  He hesitated, and I realized I didn’t know if he even drank alcohol. Maybe he was a recovering alcoholic, or maybe his religious beliefs required that he abstain. For someone who had been a pretty integral part of my daily life living in Latney, I was surprised that I still didn’t know this detail about him.

  “Sure,” he said, nodding. “Why not?”

  I set my glass down and headed to the kitchen to fill one up for him. I returned a minute later and handed him the glass.

  He swirled the liquid and lifted the glass to his nose, inhaling deeply. He took a sip and held it in his mouth for a moment before swallowing.

  I was impressed. “So, what do you think?” I’d suddenly gone to thinking he might be a teetotaler to him being a wine expert.

  “Delicious,” was all he said, and I suppressed a smile. Clearly, I was wrong on both counts.

  “So,” he said, “are you going to tell me what has you drinking in the middle of the day?”

  I held up my glass. “I’m still not finished.” I took a sip, a bigger one this time, draining a good chunk of the remaining liquid.