One Bad Egg (A Rainy Day Mystery Book 5) Read online

  “He came for another reason, too,” Eric said.

  I looked up. “Oh?”

  Eric drained his beer. “Someone else he said he wanted to make amends with.”

  “Who was that?”

  He set the mug back on the bar. “Jill.”

  NINETEEN

  “Jill?” I repeated.

  Eric nodded.

  “As in Gunnar’s daughter, Jill?”

  “I don’t know who Gunnar is, but it was the girl who came in yesterday,” Eric said. He still had his hand wrapped around the handle of the mug even though it was empty.

  I flashed to Jill earlier that day when she’d overheard the news about Owen: the shattered pie pan, the deluge of tears, and her reluctance to tell me anything about why she’d had the reaction she did.

  “What do you know about her?” I asked. “About her and Owen, I mean.”

  Eric scratched at his beard. “Nothing, really. I mean, Owen had mentioned he might see her this time around, seeing as how it’s the holidays and all. And how he had something he needed to make up to her.”

  “He’d never mentioned her before?”

  His hand returned to his mug. “I don’t think so. Why?”

  I was missing something; I just didn’t know what. Jill had clearly been distraught by the news of Owen’s death, which had led me to believe that there was something more to their relationship than what was on the surface. Their conversation on Wednesday, which had taken place pretty much in the exact spot where I was currently standing, had been charged with…something. I didn’t know what, but if I’d had to make a guess, I would say they’d had some kind of relationship at one point.

  So why didn’t Eric know about it? Especially if he and Owen had been as good of friends as he’d said they were.

  “I just thought they might be more than friends,” I said, finally answering his question.

  “Probably.” Eric nodded. “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “No?”

  He shook his head. “Owen doesn’t talk much about his love life, and I don’t ask.” Something flickered in his eyes and he glanced down at the bar. “But I picked up on some…I don’t know, tension, when they were talking.”

  I nodded in agreement. “Me, too.”

  His brow wrinkled. “Wait. You were there?”

  “You mean here?” I asked, motioning at the bar.

  “No, there.”

  “There? Where?”

  He frowned, a deep one that made his moustache twitch. “At the motel.”

  I stared at him, confused. “What are you talking about?”

  “At the motel,” Eric repeated.

  “Jill was at the motel?”

  He nodded.

  I leaned against the bar. This was news to me.

  “When?” I asked. “When was she at the motel?”

  “Last night,” Eric answered. “Before Owen died.”

  I held up my hand. “Whoa. Hang on. You saw Jill at the motel? With Owen?”

  He hesitated.

  “Eric?”

  “I didn’t see her,” he admitted. His fingers were now tracing shapes on the wooden surface of the bar. He dragged his pointer finger through the condensation from his beer glass, leaving a trail of swirls and zigzags. “But I heard her.”

  It was beginning to sound like everyone had dropped by the motel the night before.

  I was tempted to sit, to park myself at the bar and ask him a million questions and forget all about Laura and Connor and the Thanksgiving dinner preparations that still needed to be tended to. But I stayed standing, squaring my shoulders as I settled a little more comfortably against the bar.

  “Heard her where?”

  “In Owen’s room.”

  “You’re sure it was her?” I asked. “Did you see her? Were you and Owen sharing a room?”

  “No,” Eric said. “They only had singles available, and we weren’t too hot on the idea of sharing a bed.”

  I almost smiled. As much as girlfriends wouldn’t think twice about sharing sleeping space, I didn’t know a single guy who felt the same way.

  “So you heard her?” I thought for a minute. “How do you know it was her? I mean, if you heard her through the walls, wouldn’t her voice be muffled? And you didn’t know her, right? So how could you be sure who you were hearing was Jill?”

  He looked at me. “Because Owen said the word Jill.”

  “Oh.” That would be a pretty good indicator. “What were they talking about?”

  He dipped his finger in a new drop of condensation and dragged it across the shiny surface. “I couldn’t really hear. He raised his voice once—when he said her name—but other than that, I couldn’t really make out much. And I didn’t really want to eavesdrop.”

  I blushed a little at his words and his tone. “Sure,” I said, nodding. “Did you talk to Owen about it after she left?”

  “No. It was pretty late and I was beat. We’d spent most of the afternoon drinking and I was ready to pass out.”

  I remembered what Dawn had told me, that Owen and Eric had stayed at the bar drinking beer well into the afternoon, so his explanation made sense.

  “Nothing else, then?” I tried to keep the disappointment out of my voice. Finding out that Jill had visited Owen the night of his death was a big discovery, and could potentially point to a new suspect.

  My boyfriend’s daughter.

  I closed my eyes and swallowed. I’d wanted to find another suspect—someone other than Martin or Dawn—but Gunnar’s daughter hadn’t exactly been tops on my list.

  TWENTY

  I left the Wicked Wich with Jill and Thanksgiving on my mind.

  Jill because the spotlight had sort of shifted to her. I hadn’t tried and convicted her of Owen’s death yet, but the wheels had been set in motion. I wasn’t sure how I was going to go about interrogating her, but I was determined to find a way. Soon.

  And Thanksgiving, because I was driving home to my daughter and would soon have to explain my absence to her. I would also have to explain why we now had another guest who might be joining us for dinner.

  I hadn’t intended to invite Eric. I’d actually been looking forward to a quiet meal with Laura and Connor and Declan.

  But when I’d said goodbye to Eric just a few minutes earlier, I’d noticed his dejected expression, the way his shoulders slumped as he mumbled a half-hearted “Happy Thanksgiving,” and a bowling ball of guilt had settled in my stomach.

  He was in a strange town where he didn’t really know anyone, his roommate had just died, and tomorrow was Thanksgiving. The Wicked Wich would be closed, and he wasn’t sure he could use Owen’s car to get back home, much less drive somewhere for a warm meal. The last thing I wanted him to do was celebrate Thanksgiving by feeding coins into a motel vending machine and snacking on Funyons and peanut M&Ms.

  So I’d extended an invitation. And when he’d hemmed and hawed, I’d sort of insisted he come for dinner.

  He must have realized I wasn’t going to take no for an answer, because he took the napkin I’d written my address on and stuffed it into his coat pocket, thanking me as he did so and telling me he’d think about it. It wasn’t a definite yes, but I had a feeling he would take me up on the offer. I knew that I would if I were him.

  There weren’t many cars on the road and within minutes, I was pulling into my driveway and parking my car alongside Connor’s.

  I grabbed my purse and had one foot out the driver’s side door when two sneaker-covered feet appeared in front of me, positioned on the edge of a rapidly drying puddle.

  “Thank god you’re finally home!”

  My eyes traveled upward and I smiled at my daughter. “Hi, sweetie.”

  I was greeted with a deep frown. “Where have you been?” she demanded.

  “I—”

  She didn’t let me finished. “I’ve been worried sick!”

  I opened my mouth again but she wasn’t done.

  “There is a murderer on the l
oose in this town! And you just disappeared!”

  “Honey, I—”

  Her expression wavered between sheer terror and anger. “I called the cops.”

  “You what?” I asked in disbelief.

  “The cops.” Her frown turned to a scowl. “Or, rather, the sheriff. Why do you not have a police department out here? Why is there only a sheriff? With all the crime, you really should have a department.”

  We didn’t need a police department. We just needed a competent sheriff.

  “And do you want to know what he told me?”

  “Not really,” I mumbled. I hitched my purse on my shoulder and closed the car door.

  “He said it would serve you right if something happened to you.” She let out a little gasp. “Can you believe he actually said that?”

  “As a matter of fact—”

  “I told him it was his job to investigate missing persons reports and he said that you are such a good investigator—and he didn’t say that nicely—that you could just find yourself!”

  I almost smiled. That sounded exactly like the Sheriff Lewis I knew.

  “I’m sorry, Laura,” I said as we climbed the steps to the front porch. She was trailing behind me, her hair flying in the wind, her back straight, her arms swinging as if she were marching in some military procession. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I just had some…business to take care of in town.”

  “You’re investigating this murder, aren’t you?” she asked. She shook her head. “I knew coming here would be a mistake.”

  My hand was on the doorknob and I froze. “What?” I asked, slowly turning around.

  Her eyes burned into me. “A mistake. Coming here was a mistake.”

  “Why would you say that?” I hated to admit it, but her comment had hurt my feelings.

  “Because you don’t care that I’m here!”

  “Of course I care.”

  She shook her head and a strand of hair landed in her mouth. She brushed it away with an impatient swipe. “No, you don’t. We’ve barely seen you today. You’ve been gone for hours. We came here to spend time with you and all you care about are your friends and this murder.”

  “That isn’t true,” I protested, but my voice was weak and another bowling ball of guilt slammed into my gut.

  She was right.

  She had every reason to be upset with me.

  She’d come to Latney to spend time with me, and I’d basically used every opportunity I could find to leave the house…and leave her. I wasn’t intentionally avoiding her, but I’d decided that helping out with the case and the mystery surrounding Owen’s death mattered more than staying home.

  The guilt blossomed inside of me, ballooning to gargantuan proportions. Unexpected tears filled my eyes and I looked away, blinking rapidly to try to stem them.

  “I’m sorry,” I said to Laura.

  The look on her face told me she was unconvinced.

  I took a deep breath. “I’m done,” I said.

  “Done with what?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Done with focusing on this,” I said. “You’re right. You are here and you’re my daughter and I want to spend time with you.”

  Her expression remained doubtful. “So you’re just going to drop it? Just like that?”

  I nodded.

  I felt bad that Owen was dead, and that Dawn needed someone to help clear her from suspicion, and I felt bad that Martin was caught up in it, too. I wanted to know more about Jill’s connection to Owen, and if she might have had something to do with his death.

  But I wanted something else more.

  Time with my daughter. Good, quality time with her.

  I’d thought her visit might help bridge the gap created by my move. I’d fully intended to spend our time showing her my house and talking up all the things I loved about my farm and my new hometown, so she could understand—and maybe even see—why I’d grown to love living here.

  Instead, I’d allowed myself to be pulled into the latest mystery engulfing Latney. I’d set everything aside and jumped in feet-first.

  But standing there with my daughter, the cold wind biting into us and the angry gray sky reflecting my daughter’s expression, I realized something.

  I wasn’t a private investigator.

  I was a mom.

  And it was time I started acting like one.

  TWENTY ONE

  We made it through dinner with no more outbursts, accusations, or near tears.

  After declaring myself off the case, I hurried into the kitchen and made us a quick dinner. Thankfully, Connor had given up on the idea of acorn bread and had thrown together a fennel salad instead, something with oranges and dried cranberries that I was sure would taste horrible. But it had been surprisingly good and it had been the perfect complement to my lemon chicken and basmati rice.

  “So any more news on the murder?” Connor asked me.

  We were sitting in the living room, dinner finished and dishes stowed in the dishwasher. The faint whir of the machine hummed in the background, a steady pulsing sound emanating from the kitchen.

  The pipes rattled from upstairs and Connor glanced up, almost as if he were afraid the ceiling might cave in.

  Don’t worry,” I told him. “Laura must have just turned the shower on. The pipes creak a little bit when you first turn the faucet.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Is that something you need to get checked out?”

  I had no idea. My philosophy with the house was that if something still worked, it was probably fine. In a building as old as this, things were bound to be loud and creaky and on their last legs. If I wanted to be proactive, I’d probably replace everything in the house: wiring, pipes, the whole lot.

  But then I’d also be broke.

  “The salad was delicious,” I said, changing the subject.

  Connor gave me a satisfied smile and brought his wineglass to his lips. He’d brought a Merlot, a vintage from a Virginia winery I’d yet to visit, and I was already on my second glass.

  “It’s a recipe from Let’s Eat,” he said.

  “Let’s Eat?”

  He nodded. “A meal delivery service.”

  I took a sip of my wine. “So it’s a service that delivers pre-made meals?”

  “No, it’s a service that delivers ingredients and recipes,” he explained. “I get a box delivered weekly with all the ingredients and recipes for five dinners.”

  “Five?” Last time I checked, a week usually required seven dinners.

  “They don’t expect you to eat at home all the time,” he said, chuckling. “This particular recipe was served with lamb kebobs. Quite delicious, that combination.”

  A small shudder ran through me. Lambs were in the same department as ducks: animals that were for admiring and holding, not for eating.

  “Well, that sounds interesting,” I said. “I’m sure it’s far more affordable than eating meals out.”

  “Oh, it is,” he assured me. “Only a hundred dollars a week.”

  I stared at him. “A hundred dollars? For five meals?”

  “That’s for two servings,” he said quickly. “So only ten dollars per meal.”

  I did a little mental math in regards to my monthly grocery bill. I was definitely not spending ten dollars a meal on myself.

  “Well, I guess that’s cheaper than eating out,” I murmured.

  We sat in silence for a moment, and my eyes drifted to the fire burning cheerfully in the fireplace. Gunnar had cleaned out the flue a few weeks back, and I’d had a few fires since then. The smell of wood smoke in the air and the sound of crackling wood were soothing, even more so than usual.

  Maybe that was the wine talking.

  “And your job is good?” I asked, trying to immerse myself in normal topics of conversation. “And your parents?”

  He offered brief responses to both of my questions and silence descended again. I was feeling a little uncomfortable. I’d never had a problem talking to Connor before. We’d
always chatted easily, about anything and everything. And yes, he could be a little pretentious, and a little too Beltway for me, but we’d never struggled with conversation.

  Maybe it was me. Maybe I’d spent so much time alone over the last several months that I’d somehow forgotten how to talk to people.

  But even as I thought it, I knew it wasn’t true. I talked to people all the time in Latney. Gunnar, Declan, Sophia, Vivian, Mikey…and so many others.

  Maybe I was still preoccupied with the mystery surrounding Owen’s death. Maybe I wasn’t going to forget it as easily as I’d said I would.

  There was a knock at the door and I startled, splashing a little wine on to my lap. I glanced down at my jeans, frowning at the spot the wine left before I got to my feet and answered the door.

  Gunnar’s daughter was on my porch, a bakery box in her hands.

  “Jill.” I couldn’t hide my surprise.

  She offered a timid smile. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail and this, coupled with her make-up free face, gave the impression she was a young teenager, not a young woman.

  She thrust the box toward me. “This is for you.”

  “What is it?” I asked, hesitating before holding out my hands.

  “A pie,” she responded. “I went into Toby’s this afternoon and they had a buy one, get one free deal in the bakery section. I bought the last apple pie they had but I didn’t want to waste the deal. It’s a cherry pie. For your Thanksgiving dinner.”

  The last thing I needed was another dessert, even with the addition of another guest for dinner, but I didn’t say this. It had been remarkably thoughtful of her to bring one over.

  “That’s very sweet of you,” I said. “And something you absolutely did not have to do.”

  Her smile changed, a more rueful one this time. “Well, I sort of made a mess on your front porch. It was the least I could do.” She glanced down at the floorboards, squinting in the dim light the porch light provided. Laura had been meticulous in her clean up. You never would have known an apple pie had met its untimely demise on the wooden planks just a few hours earlier.