Crack Of Death (A Rainy Day Mystery Book 3) Page 5

  “How is she? The friend?” I asked.

  “As good as can be expected,” Declan said. “She was quite shocked, but she took the news well.” He paused and shook his head. “Oh, who am I kidding? No, she didn’t. She was devastated. Greta was her best friend.”

  I felt fresh pangs of sympathy, both for Greta’s friend and for Declan at having to deliver the news. It couldn’t have been an easy position for him to be in.

  “Had they been friends for a while?”

  He nodded. “A few years, from what she told me. And she’d just seen her yesterday, so the news was quite a shock.”

  I found the gas can, a red plastic one, parked next to the chain saw. I picked it up, relieved that it was almost full.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “That must have been a hard visit to make.”

  “It was,” he admitted. “I thought telling Heidi would be more difficult, but I was wrong.”

  “Heidi?”

  “Greta’s daughter,” Declan said. “I stopped by her house right before I came over here. You know, before…”

  I knew. When Gunnar had been here, too.

  “She wasn’t upset?” I asked, frowning.

  “Oh, no, she was,” Declan said. “But I think as a daughter, she’s sort of been preparing herself for this. You know, with aging parents and everything. She’s already lost her father, so she’s well aware of the limits of mortality.”

  I nodded. That made sense. I didn’t think losing one parent made it easier to lose the other, but it did have the potential to shift a person’s perspective and to help them realize that death did indeed spare no one.

  I handed the gas can to Declan. “I think you probably need more than a can of gas.”

  His eyebrows dipped into a worried frown. “Oh? Is there something else wrong with the car?”

  I smiled. As if I knew the first thing about diagnosing car issues. “No, I was saying you probably need something after the day you’ve just had. Like a glass of wine.”

  He chuckled. “Oh. Probably so,” he admitted. He held up the gas can. “But first, I need to get gas in my car and then fill this back up and bring it back to you. And then I will go home and have a beer or something.”

  He apparently hadn’t realized I was extending an invitation. I was about to correct him, to spell out to him exactly what I meant, when a shadow loomed in the doorway, blocking out the setting sun.

  “Miss Rainy Day?” a familiar voice boomed.

  I turned around.

  I could barely see Sheriff Lewis’s face, but I knew he was glaring at me.

  “We have a murder to discuss.”

  NINE

  “A what?”

  Sheriff Lewis strolled into the barn, his thumbs hooked behind his belt loops. His pipe was settled between his lips, unlit, as usual.

  “You heard me,” he barked. “A murder. A homicide.”

  I blinked.

  My silence was not met kindly. “Greta Hedley’s death has been ruled a homicide,” he announced.

  Declan and I both gaped at him.

  “A what?” Declan asked. His grip on the gas can had loosened and it looked as though it was dangling precariously from his fingertips.

  “Homicide,” the sheriff repeated. His eyes narrowed on me. “As a former private investigator, I’m sure you know what this means.”

  It didn’t seem like the right time to point out—again—that I had never been a PI.

  “How do you know it was a homicide?” I said instead.

  He folded his arms. “I’m not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation.”

  But he was, I thought. He was standing in my barn, discussing it with me at that very moment.

  “Well, that certainly is interesting,” I said carefully. “And unexpected.”

  His eyes were like slits as they raked over me. “Is it now?”

  I glanced at Declan. He looked just as confused as I did.

  “I have some questions for you, Miss Day,” Sheriff Lewis said. “Questions you’ll need to answer at the station.”

  My mouth suddenly felt dry. “Excuse me?”

  “You hard of hearing, Missy?”

  My surprise was quickly replaced by anger at his tone and insinuations.

  “Am I under arrest, Sheriff?”

  His lips closed over his pipe, almost as if he were taking an imaginary drag. They loosened. “Well, no. But you need to come in for questioning.”

  “Am I under arrest?” I repeated.

  He worked the pipe harder, sucking so hard that his cheeks hollowed out. “No,” he finally said. “Not yet, anyway.”

  I gazed at him coolly. “I don’t have to answer any questions unless I’m under arrest, Sheriff. And even then, I’m entitled to have a lawyer present.”

  I might not have been a private investigator, but I did at least know a little about legalities.

  Declan spoke up. “What’s this all about, Sheriff?”

  The sheriff turned his attention to the man standing next to me, almost as if he’d just now noticed he was in the barn with us. “This is about Greta being poisoned.”

  I let out a little gasp.

  Declan stared at him blankly. “Poisoned?”

  The sheriff nodded.

  “What…” Declan started, then stopped. He cleared his throat. “How do you know she was poisoned?”

  The sheriff frowned. “Because stuff was found in her system.”

  “Stuff?” Declan asked.

  The sheriff nodded.

  “What kind of…stuff?” Declan ventured to ask.

  The sheriff looked perplexed. “Well, I don’t exactly know. We’re still running tests. But it was stuff that wasn’t supposed to be there!”

  “So you are here to question Rainy about Greta’s death, even though you aren’t exactly sure of the details?” Declan’s voice was gentle as he asked this, and I marveled how calm and in control he sounded, especially since I’d so often witnessed the exact opposite when he was talking to me.

  But I knew why. Because I flustered him.

  “Yes,” the sheriff said stubbornly.

  “And even though you can’t say with absolute certainty that it was a homicide?”

  I wanted to point out that the sheriff already had made that declaration, but I clamped my mouth shut. No sense further stirring up the hornet’s nest standing in front of me.

  “Well, we think it was a homicide,” the sheriff said uncertainly. “All signs are pointing to that.”

  Declan offered a smile. His grip had retightened on the gas can and he shifted it to his other hand. “I’m happy to vouch for Rainy.”

  “Were you there with her?” the sheriff asked.

  “Well, no,” Declan said smoothly. “But I did coordinate her visit to Greta’s. I can assure you that she was not acquainted with Greta prior to her visit, and I can provide information as to where she was before arriving at Greta’s.”

  The sheriff frowned, his thick white moustache dancing above his lip. “You’re willing to make a statement?”

  Declan nodded. “Of course. I know Rainy and I know why she was there. She was volunteering her time to help people in need. She had nothing to do with Greta’s death.”

  The sheriff grunted. “You seem pretty darn sure of yourself.”

  “I am,” Declan responded. He glanced at me and offered a reassuring smile. “I’ve gotten to know Rainy quite well over the last few months.”

  The sheriff pulled the pipe out of his mouth and slotted it in his shirt pocket. “I sure hope you’re right, Pastor,” he said gruffly. “Because there are things about this case that aren’t adding up.” His eyes returned to me and I tried to stand my ground, tried to look innocent and defiant at the same time. “I’ll be in touch, Miss Day. You better believe it.”

  The sheriff left with a huff, squaring his shoulders and marching out of the barn, his shoes clicking on the pad of concrete before hitting the gravel driveway as he made his way back to his squad
car.

  My shoulders sagged. “Well, that was fun.”

  Declan shot me a sympathetic look. “I’m sure the sheriff is just being…overeager.”

  “Overeager? He was ready to arrest me because they found ‘stuff’ in Greta’s system. What does that even mean?”

  “It means that the sheriff is overeager,” Declan said. “He takes his job very seriously.”

  “Too seriously,” I muttered. “He’s going around accusing people of murder.”

  “I truly believe his heart is in the right place.”

  I gave Declan a doubtful look.

  “This will all blow over soon,” he said. “Just watch. They’ll get everything figured out.”

  I nodded, but inside, I wasn’t so sure. The sheriff had it out for me; of this, I was certain. It had started with the bones in the bungalow back in April, and his animosity toward me had only increased as the weeks and months went by. Being involved with Leslie’s missing person case hadn’t exactly ingratiated me to him either.

  But something else about Declan’s statement was bothering me, too.

  I knew without a doubt that this wasn’t going to blow over any time soon.

  Because the sheriff thought a crime had been committed. There was one thing I’d learned about Sheriff Lewis during my time in Latney. Well, several things, actually, but one thing that stood out: he was like a dog with a bone. Once he sank his teeth into something—a theory, an idea, whatever—he didn’t let go.

  And right now, he had me pegged as suspect number one for a murder no one was even sure had been committed.

  TEN

  I stared at the cheery yellow door in front of me. My hand hovered in the air, my finger poised just below the doorbell.

  I still couldn’t bring myself to ring it.

  It was the next morning and I was standing on Lila Bartholomew’s doorstep. After Declan had left with the gas can, I’d gone inside and immediately started hunting around for the free phone book that had been dumped on my front porch the week I’d moved to Latney. Not because I wanted to order pizza. No, after the sheriff’s visit, I was on high alert over his not-so-veiled accusations, and all I could think about was what Gunnar had told me about Lila and her ongoing feud with Greta. Ten minutes later, I’d torn apart most of the living room and kitchen before finding the phone book shoved on top of the refrigerator. It was a thin volume, not more than half an inch thick, and served all of Bueller County. There was a small white pages section and I turned to this, running my finger along the “B” names until I found what I was looking for.

  Lila Bartholomew.

  It didn’t surprise me to see her still listed, even though she’d temporarily moved to Florida. If she still owned her house here in Latney and still had phone service connected, it stood to reason that she would still be listed. It also would have made perfect sense to me, given the culture of the town and county, if the company making the book had simply forgotten to remove her.

  I‘d jotted down the address and told myself that I would pay her a visit the next morning.

  But now, standing in front of her house, I was having second thoughts.

  What was I supposed to say to her?

  “Hello, I heard you were back in town and that you’re a rival of Greta’s. Did you kill her?”

  Even I knew enough to realize that this line of questioning wouldn’t go over well.

  I didn’t have much time to think of a plan because the door opened as I was standing there.

  A short, white-haired woman squinted at me through a pair of tortoiseshell glasses. She was dressed in a pink floral housecoat, with matching slippers on her feet.

  I planted a smile on my face.

  “Who are you?” she asked in a high-pitched, thready voice. She wasn’t wasting any time with pleasantries.

  “My name is Rainy,” I said. My fake smile stretched even wider. “I…I just wanted to come by and express my condolences.”

  Lila’s eyes narrowed behind her glasses. “Condolences for what?” She stood on her tiptoes, trying to see past me. “Did you mow over my flowers?”

  “Oh, I’m not a neighbor,” I said. And then when her expression clouded, I added, “I mean, I am. Sort of. I live here in Latney. I’m new here and I heard the news about Greta and that you were a friend of hers and, well…”

  It was a horrible opening, but it was all I could think of to say. I wanted to kick myself for not putting more thought into what approach I was going to take. Preparation was not my strong suit.

  She stared at me, her lips set in a thin, crooked line. She’d put lipstick on at some point that morning but it was splotchy, as if she’d left most of it behind on the rim of a mug.

  “Who told you we were friends?” Lila asked.

  I stared down at my shoes. I’d worn sandals, brown leather ones, and my toenails peeked out at the top. The pink nail polish on my toes was chipped, and idly I thought my morning probably would have been better spent repainting them than sputtering lies on some stranger’s doorstep.

  “Hello?” She waved a hand in front of my eyes.

  I looked up. “Oh, well, I’m friends with Gunnar. Gunnar Forsythe? He's my neighbor.” She didn't show any signs of recognition. “Anyway, he said you were old quilting friends and I just…I just thought I should come by and pass along my condolences. Do you know Gunnar?”

  “Of course I know that giant lumberjack,” she growled. “Every woman in town knows that man.” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you doing the deed with him?”

  “The what?” I asked, knowing full well what she meant. “Me? No. No, I...no.”

  She chuckled, but not in a friendly way, bemused that she'd rattled me.

  This was as spectacularly bad of a plan as I’d worried it might be when I’d stood on her doorstep, wavering between ringing the bell and running.

  “Anyway,” I said, taking a step backward, “I’m…I’m sorry about the loss of your…Greta,” I finished. My cheeks felt as though they were on fire.

  She pursed her lips and nodded. Her eyes lifted from me to somewhere beyond, and her expression changed as a deeper frown crossed her face.

  I turned around to see what she was staring at.

  Another woman was headed up the sidewalk. She was older, probably close to Lila’s age, with silvery gray hair cut short. She was loaded down with a store’s worth of jewelry. Her arms sported at least a dozen bracelets each, that jingled and clinked as she walked, and layers of necklaces adorned her neck.

  She smiled uncertainly at me as she approached. “Are you entering the quilt competition, too?”

  I looked around to see if she was talking to someone else. “Who, me?” Both women were suddenly contributing to an all-out identity crisis for me.

  She nodded and held out a business-sized envelope to show me. “Entries are due today for the Dorothy Days quilt competition.”

  I shook my head. “Oh, no, I’m not a quilter. I was just…” My voice trailed off. What reason was I going to give this woman for being on Lila Bartholomew’s doorstep when Lila herself wasn’t buying it?

  “I’m Carol,” the woman told me, her smile a little less tentative now. “And I think you’re Rainy?”

  I nodded. It didn’t surprise me that she knew who I was. After all, I’d been the subject of town gossip off and on for the better part of the spring and summer months.

  The screen door creaked and Lila stepped out on to the porch. “You’re entering the competition?” she asked as she hobbled across the porch. She wasn’t using a cane but she walked with a slight limp.

  Carol’s cheeks flushed and she looked down at the sidewalk. “Yes, I—”

  “Are you sure it’s your own work, or are you planning to enter one of Greta’s quilts?”

  Finally, I put two and two together. This was Carol Luft, Greta’s friend. The woman Declan had gone to visit last night before running out of gas and showing up on my doorstep.

  Carol looked up, her cheeks an even deep
er shade of red. “Of course not,” she said quickly.

  Lila frowned, and the lines this created in her face were as deep as canyons. “No way to prove it, though, now is there?”

  Carol’s hands were shaking as she put her hands on her hips and struck a defensive pose. “I’ll have you know that I am a fine quilter,” she said angrily.

  Lila snickered. “Sure you are.” She held out her hand. “Hand it over.”

  I glanced from one woman to the other.

  Carol noticed my confusion. “Lila here is in charge of the registrations,” she explained in a shaky voice. With great reluctance, she handed the envelope to Lila.

  Lila opened the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper inside. She squinted from behind her glasses, holding the paper at arm’s length so she could read the information.

  “One quilt. Carol Luft.” She peered at the paper. “Entry fee is enclosed. And you’ve certified you are entering your own work.”

  Carol made a noise but didn’t say anything.

  Lila finally glanced up from the paper. “I’ll be sure to register you,” she announced.

  “Thank you.”

  Lila shoved the paper back into the envelope. “Don’t thank me,” she said, chuckling. “You’re paying money you’re never going to get back.”

  Carol’s eyebrows lifted. “Excuse me?”

  Lila cackled. “That entry fee of yours. That’s twenty dollars you’ll never see again. Because you don’t have a snowball’s chance in Hades of winning.”

  Carol’s eyes widened in anger.

  “Not with me back in town,” Lila finished smugly.

  I hadn’t known Greta but I thought about what Gunnar had said about her relationship with Lila. I could see why it had been contentious.

  Because Lila Bartholomew was a witch.

  I was surprised steam wasn’t pouring out of Carol’s ears. Her cheeks were still red and her hands were still shaking but she managed a tight, polite smile. “Thank you,” she said again, frostily this time.

  Lila grunted and turned her attention to me. “As for you…”

  I took a step backward. I didn’t want to be the subject of her wrath or nasty words. “Good luck with the quilt competition, “ I said.