When The Rooster Kills (A Rainy Day Mystery Book 2) Read online

  He was five feet away now. He didn’t look much older than the girl standing next to me. Blond hair kept a little long, a meager amount of stubble dotting his chin. His eyes were a watery blue, and I couldn’t tell if that was just the way they normally looked or if he was upset about something—or someone.

  Probably her, from the sound of things.

  “Leslie, I just want five minutes. That’s it.”

  I froze.

  Leslie.

  This was Leslie, Vivian’s stepsister. Which meant the guy who was pleading with her—and the guy she was staring daggers at—was her ex-boyfriend, Shawn.

  “Are you Leslie?” I asked, even though the answer was obvious.

  She snorted. “Great guess, Sherlock.” To Shawn, she paused for a minute and then said, her voice pitched high, “I’ve already given you one year of my life. You don’t get a second more. Got it?”

  A look of disbelief crossed his face. He hesitated, looking unsure, then reached for her arm. But she stepped away as if flames were suddenly licking at her. “Don’t touch me!” she screeched.

  “Leslie,” he said, his voice desperate as he looked around, “don’t make a scene.”

  “Don’t make a scene?” she repeated. She shook her head so violently, her earrings swung like trapeze swings. “You’re the one chasing after me! You’re the one who followed me back to Latney, even when I told you not to.”

  Something flashed in his eyes, something I couldn’t quite read. He cleared his throat and puffed out his chest a little. “Well, I’m…I’m chasing you because I think we need to talk.”

  “Well, you think wrong,” she said, folding her arms over her chest.

  Shawn reached for her again, his hand connecting with her forearm this time. He hauled her to him, wrapping her in his arms. She struggled against him but he had her arms pinned to her sides.

  “Just one minute,” I heard him whisper next to her ear. “One minute…” But then his voice was lost, muffled against her hair.

  “Hey,” I said. When he didn’t move, I said it again, louder this time. “Hey!”

  He glanced in my direction with those clear, almost colorless eyes. “Who are you?”

  I wasn’t anyone except the woman who’d knocked Leslie over. But I was also a bystander who was watching a man physically restrain a woman—a man I was pretty sure she didn’t want to have anything to do with.

  “Let her go.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

  Leslie’s back was still to me, but I could see her struggling, trying to squirm out of his grasp.

  “You heard her,” a new voice said.

  Mikey was standing in the doorway of the Wicked Wich, a nasty frown on his face.

  Shawn chuckled. “What are you gonna do about it, baby face?”

  Mikey took a step forward, cracking his knuckles. It was only then that I noticed the taut bicep muscles under his Wicked Wich t-shirt. Mikey might have been young, but he definitely wasn’t built like some scrawny kid.

  “What do you want me to do?” Mikey countered. His voice was light but a muscle twitched in his jaw. “Break your legs? Your jaw? Maybe just your hands so you can’t ever grab her again?”

  A look of uncertainty crossed Shawn’s face, quickly replaced by a smirk. “You’re a big talker, little man.”

  “I’m an even bigger hitter.”

  Leslie found her voice again. “Let me go!”

  She fought harder against Shawn and managed to break one arm free. Mikey grabbed it and wrenched her out of his grasp. With her safely out of the way, he leaned in and landed a quick jab to Shawn’s chin. Not hard, but just enough to stun him.

  Shawn’s head snapped back and he rubbed his jaw, a look of shock on his face. “Why the hell did you do that?”

  Leslie stared at him in horror, her chest heaving, and said nothing.

  “This ain’t over,” Shawn said quietly, and I couldn’t tell if his words were directed at Leslie or Mikey or both.

  He turned to go and Leslie sagged with relief. But only for a minute. Because as soon as Shawn turned the corner, she launched herself into Mikey’s arms.

  “Thank you,” she said in a voice choked with tears. She held him tight and, after a moment’s hesitation, Mikey clumsily returned the hug, patting her back like one might do to an affectionate puppy.

  She gave him one final squeeze and with Shawn safely out of the picture, turned away from the entry of the Wicked Wich and continued on her way down the sidewalk.

  Mikey and I stared after her, and I was pretty sure both of us were trying to figure out what the heck had just happened.

  Because I was clueless.

  SIX

  I only watched for a minute, though.

  And then I ran after her.

  “Leslie,” I called. My purse jostled my shoulder and the soles of my shoes pounded the pavement as I tried to make up ground.

  If she heard me, she didn’t outwardly show it. She kept her head down, her brown hair like a curtain, and kept on walking.

  I picked up my pace so that I was basically jogging and tried to ignore the fact that I was both breathing and sweating hard. I made a mental note to try to get a little more regular exercise so that a spontaneous sprint down the sidewalk wouldn’t result in me feeling like I was running a marathon. Or dying.

  “Leslie!”

  She slowed and I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe I wasn’t going to die from overexertion, after all.

  “Hang on a second,” I panted as I caught up to her.

  She gave me a distasteful look, like I was some mangy dog that had decided to follow her home. “What do you want? To knock me over again?”

  “No,” I gasped, trying to catch my breath. The sun was beating down on us and I knew my face was probably cherry red, as much from the heat as from the exertion. “I just…have a few questions.”

  “Sounds like a personal problem.”

  I frowned. Even though I felt bad for bumping into her and bad that she’d had a run-in with her ex-boyfriend, I still wasn’t digging her attitude.

  “I was at your sister’s house today,” I said, trying a different tactic. “She told me all about you. And about Shawn.”

  For the first time, she looked unsure. “Vivian?”

  I nodded. My pulse was trying to get back to normal but my throat was dry and tight, and I would have killed for a glass of water. I swallowed, a futile attempt at moistening it. “She said you left him back in Kentucky and drove back home. And that he followed you.” I paused. “She’s…she’s worried about you.”

  Leslie’s expression darkened. “No, she isn’t. No one is. No one cares about me.”

  “She is,” I insisted. I thought about Leslie’s encounter with Shawn and how he had restrained her. “And I am, too.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Gee, thanks. A total stranger is concerned about me.” She snorted. “That’s actually more believable than Viv giving a hoot about me and my life.”

  I didn’t know what her relationship was like with her stepsister and I had nothing to compare it to. I had been an only child, and even though I was divorced, the split was relatively recent and I had no new husband or stepchildren in my own life to adjust to. I did know that blending families and lives could be a hard thing, and I knew that sibling rivalry could be compounded when new kids were inserted into the familial equation.

  But I also knew, based on my own interaction with her, that Leslie was a bit of a pill.

  “Look,” I said, “I’m not trying to get in your business.”

  “Coulda fooled me,” she muttered.

  “You tell me things are cool with you and your ex, then I’m good.” I watched her as I said this, and saw the way her expression became more guarded. “He isn’t abusive? He wasn’t assaulting you on the sidewalk…or before that?”

  She glanced down at the ground, her eyes fixed on the sidewalk. It was fresh cement, an almost blinding white in the mid-afternoon sun, and I wondere
d what city department was responsible for sidewalks and roads. In my two months living in Latney, I hadn’t seen anything that resembled a city hall or a public works department.

  “Everything is fine,” she finally said, looking up.

  There was no smile of reassurance on her face, but there wasn’t a frown or a scowl, either. I chalked that up as a win.

  “You’re sure?”

  The corners of her mouth turned downward, and I knew the pleasantries were over.

  “Of course I’m sure,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I be? You think I wouldn’t know if I was okay?”

  I took a deep breath, as much to get a little extra oxygen into my lungs as to try to calm my rising blood pressure. I was done with Vivian’s stepsister. Done with talking to her and done with trying to help her. Because she clearly didn’t want it.

  “Alright,” I said, nodding. “Well, then I guess that’s it.”

  I debated whether or not to tell her to have a good day or a nice life, or maybe even to go to hell since she’s been such a sourpuss to me, but none of those sentiments felt right. Maybe I just needed to turn around and walk away.

  Leslie decided for the both of us. With one last glance of disgust, she turned on her heel and continued on her way.

  I watched her go.

  I didn’t know what to think about her, or her relationship with Vivian, or what I’d witnessed on the street only a few minutes earlier. It was obvious that she hadn’t wanted anything to do with her ex, and from my viewpoint, he’d crossed the line by grabbing her and restraining her. But she’d insisted that everything was okay.

  I didn’t think I had any friends—growing up or now—who’d been victims of domestic abuse, but that was the problem. Most victims didn’t see themselves as such because they lived in denial. They excused behaviors and attitudes, maybe even thought of them as normal. I didn’t know if that applied to Leslie or not. All I knew was that, despite the apparent rocky relationship between Leslie and her older stepsister, Vivian had been right about one thing: there was definitely trouble brewing between her younger sister and her ex-boyfriend.

  I headed back toward the Wicked Wich and my car. My mouth was still parched but my breathing was back to normal. Cotton candy clouds had floated in from the west, blanketing the sky like a bowl of spilled popcorn. A gentle breeze came along and it blew my hair off my shoulders, cooling the sweat that had beaded on my neck and forehead during my sprint down the sidewalk.

  I thought back to my conversation with Vivian. I’d promised to find a way to help, but I wasn’t sure I could if Leslie didn’t want it. And from my interactions with her, she’d made it pretty clear that she didn’t want—or need—assistance from anyone. Not Shawn, not Vivian, and definitely not me.

  What little I’d witnessed of her and Shawn together hadn’t set off any huge red flags for me, but I’d spent all of two minutes with them. I had no idea what had happened before he’d come walking down the sidewalk. Had she taken a swing at him? Cussed him out? Based on how she’d treated me, a complete stranger, I could only imagine what she might have done to someone she knew and was upset with. It didn’t excuse his actions, of course, but context was everything. And I didn’t have it.

  I slowed as I approached my car, my heart sinking a little.

  Context wasn’t the only thing I didn’t have.

  I also didn’t have any answers for Vivian.

  SEVEN

  God was calling me.

  Actually, it was the quilt raffle at St. Simon’s that was really calling me.

  I was ready to head home and call it a day with my amateur sleuthing, but as soon as I got in my car, I remembered that it was the last day to buy tickets for the St. Simon’s Quilt Raffle. I’d seen the signs up all over town and had made note after mental note to swing by, all of which I’d promptly forgotten. The signs showed a photo of the quilt up for grabs, a beautiful patchwork of blues and purples that I’d instantly fallen in love with. I knew it would be perfect for a guest room, or even my own bed, and at a dollar a ticket, I figured I didn’t have much to lose in buying a few.

  If I could remember to buy them before the raffle was over.

  I pulled into the parking lot. It was empty save for one car. Declan’s trusty white Prius.

  I crossed the lot and climbed the three steps to the door and pulled it open. It was dark and cool inside, and as often happened when I visited, a wave of calm washed over me. Maybe it was because of the silence: the walls and windows were thick, and the outside world somehow felt muted, in the same way a fresh blanket of snow muffled the harshest of sights and sounds during winter.

  “Hello?” I called softly. “Declan?”

  “In here,” he called back.

  I followed the sound of his voice, through the open foyer area and down a hallway to where his office was.

  Declan was sitting behind a weathered oak desk, a yellow pad of paper in front of him. A Bible was open to his left, a small desk lamp shining on its pages.

  He looked up at me and smiled. His reddish-brown hair was slightly mussed, as if he’d run his hand through it a couple of times during his time sitting in his office. He had glasses on, delicate wire-rimmed ones, and he removed them.

  “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

  “Eye strain,” he said. “And probably old age.”

  I shook my head at this. I was pretty sure Declan Murphy wasn’t a day over forty; maybe even younger. But I wasn’t going to ask. It didn’t seem like the kind of question you pose to your pastor/friend.

  “We missed you this morning,” he said, leaning back in his brown leather office chair. Even from a distance, I could see that the fabric was faded and cracked, and had probably served as seating for several pastors throughout the years.

  “Yeah, I had some stuff come up and…” My voice trailed off.

  I was lying. Nothing had come up other than my ambivalence over attending church. Laura had left yesterday and I hadn’t gone to Vivian’s until lunchtime, well after the service was over.

  “No excuses necessary,” Declan said. His smile was genuine. “Just letting you know we missed you, that’s all.”

  It didn’t feel like a guilt trip, but I couldn’t help but taking it as such. Church wasn’t my favorite weekend pastime but I knew Declan enjoyed seeing me there. Even knowing this, it was still hard to force myself to go. I had other things I wanted to do in the mornings, and I really had become sort of hermit-like over the past several weeks, focusing my time and energy on the farm instead of the town.

  But then I remembered that one of the side effects of having done this was a serious lack of friendships. And how I’d decided I needed to address that.

  Which led me right back to Vivian and Leslie.

  Declan must have noticed my expression change because his did, too. His brows furrowed together. “Is everything alright, Rainy?”

  I pasted on a smile. “Yes, absolutely. My daughter came for a quick visit yesterday so I was just thinking about that.”

  He nodded, smiling. “That must have been nice. I’d like to meet her some day. Your son, too. She’s a teacher, right? Back in Arlington?”

  His recall of details was remarkable. We’d spent some time talking, especially during my first couple of weeks in Latney when I’d been in the thick of things with bones and fires, but since then, our visiting had become more infrequent. The fact that he remembered all of those small details about my life impressed me. I knew he was a pastor, knew it was his job to get to know his flock, but I wasn’t exactly one of them.

  Yet.

  “Yes,” I said. “Laura is a teacher and Luke lives in California.”

  “That’s right. The musician.” He smiled again. He had such a nice smile; friendly and warm, the kind of smile that felt oddly familiar, as if you’d seen it a thousand times on dozens of faces, the faces of every friendly teacher and kind doctor and helpful stranger.

  I reached for my purse and dug out my wallet. “I was ho
ping I could still buy a couple of raffle tickets for the quilt.”

  He opened a drawer, producing a roll of tickets. “I think we can make that happen. How many do you want?”

  Considering I never bought lottery tickets and had only participated in one raffle in my entire life, for a bike at a city-sponsored picnic when Laura was five, I was a little unsure.

  He must have sensed my hesitation. “Five is usually a good number,” he offered. “Not even enough to buy a burger at Dawn’s, so if you don’t win the most you’re out is a fancy coffee.”

  Sound logic as far as I was concerned. I handed him a five-dollar bill. “I’ll take them.”

  He tore off my half of the tickets and then shoved the remaining halves into a large manila envelope. “All set,” he told me. “We’ll draw the winner next Sunday. At the 10 am service.”

  “Must be present to win?” I asked.

  He grinned. “No. But you’re definitely encouraged to be there. Just like always.”

  I smiled back. “I’ll get it on my calendar.”

  “It’s good to see you, Rainy,” he said. His eye shifted from me to the desk. “I’ve been wondering how you’ve been. I mean, not all the time. It’s not like I’ve been sitting here thinking about you. I mean, I have, obviously, because you’re my friend but—”

  I cut him off before he became even more flustered than he already was. “It’s nice to see you, too. I was thinking we should catch up sometime. It has been a while.”

  He glanced back up at me. “How about dinner?” he asked suddenly.

  “Dinner?” I repeated.

  He nodded at the clock mounted on the wall. It was shaped like a captain’s wheel. “It’s almost four-thirty.”

  I had no idea how it had gotten so late. But then I remembered everything that I had done that day: gone to Vivian’s and suffered through cucumber sandwiches, had lunch at the Wicked Wich. My encounter with Leslie, then Shawn and Leslie, and then Leslie again.

  “Mabel brought over a pot roast on Friday,” he told me. “With mashed potatoes and homemade biscuits, too. And a peach cobbler.”