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

  I wasn’t hungry. Even though the food sounded delicious, the burger I’d eaten for lunch had been huge and my stomach knew it was way too early for dinner.

  But Declan was watching me with wide, hopeful eyes. I thought about our past conversations, and how he was pretty new to the town, too, and still struggling to fit in. The townspeople were nice to him and several had warmly welcomed him, as evidenced by Mabel’s pot roast, but he still had big shoes to fill as the new pastor. And, like me, he still needed friends.

  I didn’t have the heart to say no.

  Not just because I knew I was already going to be letting Vivian and Leslie down.

  But because I didn’t want to let him down, too.

  EIGHT

  I followed Declan to his house, which was about five minutes away. Nothing in Latney was far, and I was a bit surprised that he drove to church when he lived so close.

  We pulled into the driveway of a charming, yellow-sided house with white shutters and a blue front door, just a block down from where the road curved and headed toward the Konrath sisters’ house.

  Declan got out of his car and pulled out a canvas bag stuffed with books and binders. “I’d walk to work if I didn’t have to lug all of this around,” he told me, shutting the door with his hip.

  It was funny hearing church called “work,” but that was what it was to him.

  I walked up the sidewalk and to the front door, admiring the freshly cut lawn and neatly trimmed bushes that lined the left side of his property. Everything looked clean and orderly, the exact opposite of my sprawling mess of acreage.

  He pushed the door open and waited for me to step inside before following behind me.

  The interior was just as charming as the exterior. The front door led straight into the living room, where two taupe loveseats sat opposite each other, a small black coffee table between them. A recliner was positioned off to the corner, right next to the living room window, flanked by a side table and a tall black bookcase filled with a mix of hard and soft cover books. There was a potted tree in another corner, and a colorful braided rug set off the stone fireplace. Pictures papered the walls, mostly family photos from the looks of them.

  I inched closer to get a better look. There were photos of Declan and a redheaded girl several years younger than him. Declan with an older couple, a woman with his eyes and a man with his smile, and I figured these were his parents. A couple of wedding and vacation photos, along with some school pictures of kids who shared a tiny resemblance to the man whose living room I was standing in.

  “That’s my mom and dad,” he said, pointing to one of the vacation pictures. They were in San Francisco, or maybe just north, but somewhere that allowed for them to pose with the Golden Gate Bridge in the background. “Along with my sister Fiona.”

  “She’s so little in that picture.” She was maybe five, and Declan looked to be in his late teens.

  “Twelve years younger,” he said, nodding. “My parents always said that I was their first surprise and she was their last.”

  I chuckled. “Funny how that works.”

  He motioned toward a small hallway that led into what looked like the kitchen. It was small, about half the size of mine, but cheery and bright, with red cupboards and white appliances. There were chickens everywhere: a chicken clock, a chicken cookie jar, and chicken-themed towels hanging from the stove.

  “I didn’t know you liked chickens.”

  “I don’t. My sister does, and she did the decorating.” He opened the fridge. “Would you like something to drink? I have iced tea, lemonade, beer.”

  “Beer?”

  “I’m a pastor, Rainy, not a recovering alcoholic.” He held up a can of Guinness. “Want one?”

  I did. Desperately.

  He grabbed two glass mugs from the cupboard and poured one can, then another, tilting the glass to keep the foam at a minimum. He handed me mine and I sipped, savoring the bitter aroma and the full-bodied, malty taste.

  We chatted while Declan moved around the kitchen, pulling covered dishes out of the fridge and taking turns heating them up in the microwave. The savory smell of pot roast soon permeated the air and I decided right then that, despite being full from lunch, there was no way I was leaving without trying that delicious-smelling meat.

  I offered to set the table and he pointed to the cupboard with the dishes. Yellow earthenware plates, a small rooster at the center of each, and matching bowls.

  “Compliments of your sister?” I asked, holding one of them up.

  He stirred the container of mashed potatoes and shook some salt on them. “How’d you guess?”

  I smiled as I plunked them down on the pine table in the dining room. I liked Declan, and I liked hearing about his family. He seemed normal, nice. Yes, he seemed to get flustered more often than not, but he was solid and dependable. He was a friend, and I wanted friends. Needed them. Even if they were redheaded pastors who drank Guinness and tripped over their words sometimes.

  Maybe especially if they did these things.

  Five minutes later, we were sitting at the table, the leftover roast and mashed potatoes steaming in front of us. Declan had warmed the biscuits from Mabel, too, and the pat of butter I spread across the top of mine melted instantly, soaking into the top.

  “So what’s been keeping you busy these days?” Declan asked. He’d already drained half his beer and his cheeks were rosy, his smile wide.

  “Oh, just stuff,” I said. I bit into the biscuit and it practically dissolved in my mouth. “House stuff. Yard stuff. My garden is growing—I have lettuce that’s ready, and the rest of the plants look good, too. And I have chickens. New ones, baby chicks. Maybe I should bring one over for you. To go with your kitchen décor.”

  He chuckled. “That’s a gift I wouldn’t look forward to.”

  “But you’d take it, wouldn’t you?”

  He just smiled and didn’t answer. Probably didn’t want to lie.

  He brought a forkful of food to his mouth, a piece of roast topped with a dollop of mashed potatoes. “It sounds like you’re really settling in.”

  “I am,” I said, nodding. “To the house, anyway.”

  He looked at me. “Oh?”

  “Well, you know, I’ve been so busy with projects that I haven’t made it into town much.”

  “I’ve noticed,” he said dryly, and this time, the hint wasn’t so subtle.

  “And…I don’t know.” I twirled my fork in my mashed potatoes, not sure if I wanted to keep going. This was what always happened with Declan. Somehow, someway, he managed to get me to talk. I didn’t know if he had some magical powers that allowed him to do this or if he learned something at seminary that made people open up to him. But whatever it was, just being in his presence made me want to spill my guts.

  He waited patiently.

  I sighed. “I just…I think I’m just missing my old friends.”

  A look of understanding crossed his face. “Ah. I understand.” He picked up his glass and studied the coffee-colored liquid. “Have you gotten involved in any activities around town?”

  Well, he clearly knew I wasn’t much involved with church.

  “Not really,” I admitted.

  “The Latney Ladies Society is fairly active,” he said. “They do a couple of community events each year, and I believe they have monthly luncheons. There is the Lake Dorothy Conservation Group, too. They host Dorothy Days in September.”

  “Dorothy Days?”

  “The town festival,” he said, smiling. “You haven’t heard about it?”

  I shook my head.

  “A two-day weekend festival. Town pretty much comes to a grinding halt. Parade, a barbecue and potluck at the park down by the lake. They have live music and fireworks, too.”

  I had no idea a town the size of Latney could pull off a one-day event of that magnitude, much less a two-day long festival.

  “People come from all over,” Declan continued. “At least that’s what I’ve heard.
This will be my first Dorothy Days, too.” His cheeks reddened and he looked down at his almost empty plate. “Maybe we can go together. Well, I mean, not go together, but hook u—I mean, see each other there. Being new and all, it might be fun—”

  I reached out my hand and touched his. “I would love to go with you, Declan.”

  His eyes lifted. “Yeah?”

  I nodded. “Yes, absolutely.” I broke off a piece of my biscuit and popped it in my mouth. “And I’d like to check out the Lake Dorothy group. That might be a good way to get involved, meet some people.”

  “The Ladies Society, too,” he reminded me. “Don’t forget about them.”

  I didn’t want to think about the Latney Ladies Society, because thinking about them made me think about Vivian. And Leslie. And how I couldn’t help them.

  “Believe me, I haven’t.”

  He started to say something else but a bell saved me.

  Well, actually, a phone.

  My phone, ringing from my purse.

  I stood up and hurried into the kitchen, grateful for the distraction. I knew Declan was about ten seconds away from making me spill about Leslie and Vivian. I didn’t feel the need to keep anything a secret from him, but I also knew that telling him would probably lead to me confessing my desire for friends and wanting them to like me and feeling like I’d sort of lost that opportunity because I couldn’t help with what Vivian needed.

  It wasn’t exactly rational thinking, but I wasn’t always a rational person.

  An unfamiliar number was flashing on my screen, but the area code told me it was local. I swiped the screen.

  “Hello? Is this Rainy?”

  The woman’s voice sounded familiar.

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “Oh, it’s me,” the woman said, her voice strained. “Vivian.”

  My eyebrows lifted in surprise.

  “I need your help. Right away.” She let out a strangled sigh. “It’s Leslie. She’s missing.”

  NINE

  Declan was waiting for me when I got off the phone.

  “Everything okay?” he asked. His plate had been scraped clean and his mug of beer was empty.

  “Yes, everything’s fine,” I told him. “Listen, something’s come up that I sort of need to take care of.”

  He frowned. “Oh? Are you sure you’re okay? You look a little rattled.”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “I just…I need to go see someone. A…a friend.”

  His frown deepened and I knew what he was thinking. I’d just hinted that I didn’t have any friends.

  The words were ready to tumble out of my mouth. I was all set to tell him about Leslie and Vivian, to tell him how I’d promised to find a way to help but had fallen short, to tell him that I knew I was being ridiculous but that somehow, loneliness had decided to park itself right on my doorstep yesterday and had suddenly become something I was obsessing over. I was ready to confess, to spill everything.

  But he saved me from doing so. Instead of asking another question or waving his hand and casting the word vomit spell over me, he said, “I understand.”

  Guilt blossomed. Was I hurting his feelings? Ruining our chance at friendship? Was I ever going to do anything right in this town?

  “Wait—”

  He stood and gathered the plates. Mine was still half-full and I was filled with regret over the roast and mashed potatoes I wasn’t going to finish. “Let me put these away and I’ll see you out.”

  He walked me outside and we did the awkward “Should we hug or shake hands or what?” dance for a moment, before I just thanked him for the dinner and got into my car before either of us could make the wrong move.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was back at Vivian’s house.

  She had the front door open before I’d even turned the car off. I hurried toward her. The worry on her face was unmistakable. As was the irritation.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said, ushering me into the living room.

  She motioned toward one of the floral Queen Anne sofas in the formal living room. I was pretty sure no one had ever sat on the sofa: it was pristine, the cherry wood polished to a shine, the fabric bright, with no signs of wear. The rest of the room was spotless, too: cherry sofa table and end chairs, polished so that they gleamed in the soft glow of two Tiffany-style lamps. A pair of curio cabinets flanked the picture window, and these were filled with delicate crystal sculptures and china pieces.

  I tried to get comfortable on the sofa, but it was impossible. I sat with my back straight, my purse in my lap. “What’s going on?”

  Vivian sat down beside me. She’d changed clothes since the afternoon, and was now dressed in black yoga pants and a pink athletic pullover. Her auburn hair was pulled into a high ponytail and the jewelry she’d worn earlier was gone. I wondered if she’d just come home from a workout, but she wasn’t sporting red cheeks or showing any signs of fatigue or exertion. Maybe rich people didn’t get tired when they worked out.

  “Leslie is missing.”

  “Yeah…you mentioned that. Can you tell me what happened?”

  Vivian took a deep breath. “She came to the house a couple of hours ago. She was all upset because she and Shawn had a fight or something outside of the Wicked Wich.”

  I debated mentioning to her that I was there and had witnessed it, but I didn’t want to interrupt.

  “She was upset, like I said, and I wanted to get her mind off of seeing him. I needed a few things from the market and I asked her if she’d go grab them for me.”

  “Things?”

  “Almond milk, tofu, edame…just a couple of things I was running low on.”

  Considering the fact that we’d had cucumber sandwiches for lunch, these grocery items didn’t surprise me.

  “So what happened?”

  Vivian folded her hands in her lap. Her fingers were laced tight, her knuckles a ghostly white against the vibrant red nail polish she wore. “She didn’t come back.”

  I felt the first prickle of goose bumps. “Okay,” I said. “And how long ago was this?”

  “An hour ago.”

  I let out a slow breath. An hour.

  She was worried because her stepsister had gone to the store an hour ago and hadn’t come back.

  “Have you tried calling her?”

  Vivian nodded. “She isn’t picking up. Her phone just goes straight to voicemail.”

  “Did she drive?”

  “No, she walked. Her car is in the driveway. She drove over from Dad’s earlier today and parked it there.”

  “Okay, well maybe she stopped somewhere else,” I said. “The boutique or something?” Even as I said it, I knew that probably wasn’t a possibility. Sophia kept odd hours with her store, and I wasn’t even sure she opened most Sundays. As for the other businesses, some opted to stay open later because it was summer, but others maintained a year-round schedule, which included closing early on Sundays.

  But Vivian was already shaking her head. “No. I explicitly told her to come right back. I needed the almond milk right away for my protein shake.” She paused and then added, “I drink one after every workout.”

  So she had been working out. And not sweating and looking gorgeous while doing it. I swallowed my envy.

  “Rainy, I need your help,” she said. She twisted her hands, almost as if she were wringing out a wet washcloth. “I don’t know what to do.”

  I tried my best to be supportive. “Did you go and look for her?”

  Vivian hesitated. “Well…no. I mean, I wouldn’t know where to look. I’m not exactly an investigator or detective.”

  I wanted to point out that I wasn’t, either, but it didn’t seem like the right time to mention that again.

  “I was hoping you could help. I…I don’t have any other friends who have the experience you do.”

  But I didn’t have experience looking for people or solving cases. I had managed files and phones at a private investigative firm. I’d kept my boss’s schedule in c
heck, and, sometimes, him, too.

  “I don’t know—” I began.

  “Please.” Vivian’s tone held a note of desperation. “I don’t know what else to do.”

  “I don’t think there really is anything to do yet,” I tried to explain. “She’s only been gone an hour. You can’t call it in to anyone yet and, honestly, she might just be somewhere in town.” This was the most logical explanation, considering the fact that Vivian hadn’t even stepped outside to look for her.

  “I just feel so helpless.”

  “Well, you could go out and look for her.” It felt weird, stating the obvious, but it was clearly something Vivian had dismissed.

  “Would…” She broke off and swallowed a couple of times. “Would you go look for her?”

  “Me?”

  Vivian’s eyes were huge and pleading. “That way I can stay here if she comes back. I…I can call or text you if I hear from her. But that way, someone will be here if she shows up and we can still have someone out walking around.”

  Her use of “we” felt a little unnerving, as if my participation and involvement was a foregone conclusion.

  Inwardly, I sighed.

  Because it was.

  I was there. I’d already agreed to help previously. And, according to Vivian and her interpretation of recent events, her stepsister was in even more trouble than she had been before. Why would I walk away now?

  “Okay,” I said, relenting.

  Vivian’s grip on her own hands relaxed.

  “But I can’t do it alone,” I told her.

  “Oh.” She bit her lip together, thinking. “Who do you think you should call?”

  I noticed right away that she was putting it all on me. The “we” was gone.

  But that was okay.

  Because I knew immediately who I would call for help.

  The same person who’d always been there for me, since day one of moving to Latney.

  Gunnar Forsythe.

  TEN

  “This should take all of ten minutes,” Gunnar said as we walked from Vivian’s toward downtown Latney.