Dead Ends (Main Street Mysteries Book 2) (18 page)

The face rose a little. ‘I didn't kill my wife.’ His face was perfectly bland. Controlled. ‘And I didn't throw anyone “under the truck,” as you so charmingly put it. I just reported the facts.’

‘You couldn't possibly have believed that I harmed your wife. Why? I ended the affair, Ben, did you forget? Or do you now believe your own lies?’

‘That's not the way I remember it.’ The way he said it would have made AnnaLise believe him. If she hadn't lived it, too.

‘You deleted your text messages on my phone.’

He spread his hands wide. ‘I honestly don't know what you're talking about.’

‘Fine. You can continue to deny it and I, of course, have no way of proving otherwise.’

‘Lise.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Do we really have to have this discussion now?’

The use of Chuck's nickname for her raised hackles, but she fought to remain calm. This man fed on confrontation.

AnnaLise took a deep breath. ‘You're right. What happened between us is over, so we should let bygones be bygones.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Please let me know if there's anything I can do for you while you're here.’ She stood up as a phone rang in another room. ‘I assume you'll be –’

Sheree stuck her head around the corner. ‘Excuse me. The chief is on the phone. He says he's been calling, but your cell goes right to voicemail.’

AnnaLise glanced down at her handbag. ‘I don't –’

Ben overrode her, nodding to the BlackBerry on the table. ‘I turned mine it off. Too many crank calls. Is the chief still on the line?’

‘Yes,’ Sheree said. ‘You can take it in the kitchen if you'd like some privacy.’

‘Thank you.’ He turned to AnnaLise and extended a hand. ‘And thank you so much for coming. Now, if you'll excuse me?’

AnnaLise shook hands wordlessly. As Ben left the room, Sheree followed, sending a questioning look in AnnaLise's direction before she rounded the corner.

Left alone in the room, the reporter eyed the BlackBerry. It was the same as hers, so she'd have no trouble turning it on and punching up the text messages. Couldn't hurt to have a look, she thought, moving toward the table. After all . . .

‘Excuse me.’ Ben's voice was behind her, and his hand jabbed for the BlackBerry. ‘I'll be needing that.’

AnnaLise whirled to face him.

‘Contact numbers.’ Rosewood held the phone up for her to see.

But he had a smile on his face.

Twenty-four

The man was pathological liar, AnnaLise thought as she began the drive to the hospital. So why had it taken her so long to see it?’

‘Because he's so damn
good
at it,’ AnnaLise said out loud. She pounded the steering wheel with one fist, sending the Chrysler swerving slightly and earning her a surprised look from the driver of the pick-up truck next to her.

But this was the High Country, so there was no horn being blared or finger being thrown. When you were stupid in the mountains, you were expected to realize it and do better next time.

And boy did AnnaLise realize it. Now how could she do better?

For whatever reason, Chuck was currently on the fence about her. Angry, disappointed, even disgusted – AnnaLise wasn't sure, but she did know that something had shifted between them.

Even if AnnaLise went to him at this point and poured out her fears about Ben Rosewood, she wasn't sure the police chief would listen. The undisclosed affair had complicated everything including, presumably, AnnaLise's perceived reasons for trying to reciprocally throw Ben under the same bus previously rolling over her.

No matter what Chuck said about the Wisconsin DA not being on the same ‘team’ as the Sutherton police, the justice system was entirely capable of closing ranks, especially given that Ben was utterly convincing and AnnaLise, utterly devoid of proof he'd done anything wrong. In fact, despite her theories, even she herself couldn't be sure he had.

‘Just because he's a lying bastard doesn't make him a murderer.’

***

‘The patient is still unconscious and can
not
receive visitors at this time, the gray-haired woman at the nurse's station told AnnaLise.

It wasn't a surprise, nor was the police officer she could see sitting on a chair outside a room about two-thirds of the way down the hall.

‘I understand,’ AnnaLise said to the woman. ‘Do you know if his father is with him? I'd like to offer my . . .’ What did you offer a man whose son was likely to be charged with murder, assuming he survived. Condolences? Best wishes?

‘I'm sure Mr Eames would be very glad for your company,’ the nurse said. ‘I believe he's in the cafeteria right now, having lunch.’

‘Thank you,’ AnnaLise said gratefully. ‘Can you tell me how to get there?’

‘Just follow that green line you can see on the floor by the wall opposite there? Oh, and be certain you don't switch over to the turquoise accidentally. That'll end you up in Radiology.’

The woman's tone and manner reminded her of the nurses who had taken care of her father – her real father, as far as she was concerned – before his death.

AnnaLise may have been just five, but she recalled the sounds and bustle of the hospital vividly. And, more than anything, she remembered the calm kindness of the nurses who brought coloring books and crayons to the little girl in the waiting room.

The nurses did for her, and her mother and her father, what they would do again and again and again for other families. It was a gift – one that AnnaLise wasn't sure she was capable of giving.

But she was very grateful others were.

‘Thanks again,’ AnnaLise said, following directions. About halfway there, she no longer needed the line – her nose could have led her to the big room, filled with round tables and chairs. They say that scents trigger memories, even more so than the sights and sounds evoked by our other senses.

‘Trays are to your right,’ the woman at the cash register said.

AnnaLise nodded her thanks. Passing by the long aluminum buffet counter, she looked around. It was nearly noon, so many of the round tables were already filled with people, a sea of white lab coats and blue or salmon scrubs. Amongst them, AnnaLise caught sight of a familiar blue plaid shirt bent over a soup bowl.

‘Mr Eames,’ AnnaLise said when she'd reached his table. ‘I don't mean to disturb you.’

‘AnnaLise,’ Fred Eames said, hefting himself to his feet. ‘Are you visiting someone here?’

‘Actually, I was hoping to see Josh, but I'm told he's still unconscious.’ She gave the man a hug.

‘I'm afraid so, but that's kind of you.’ He was staring at her and she saw tears brimming in his eyes. ‘So very, very kind.’

‘Please,’ she said, waving him back into his chair. ‘Don't let your lunch get cold.’

‘Won't you join me?’ Mr Eames said, more a plea than invitation. ‘They have the most wonderful soup. Make it right here. I can't tell you how long it's been since I had homemade beef barley soup. Not that this is quite homemade, of course. More “hospital-made.”’ An awkward laugh.

‘I remember their soup,’ AnnaLise said. ‘I spent a lot of time here when my dad was sick.’

‘You were very little,’ he said. ‘I'm surprised you can recall that.’

AnnaLise sat down. ‘Chicken noodle was my favorite. They made it with those thick noodles you couldn't keep on a spoon. I'd pretend they were trying to escape back into the bowl before I could eat them.’

‘Bet your mama loved that. Them big egg noodles splash some.’

‘They surely do,’ AnnaLise agreed with a smile. Then, ‘How is Joshua, Mr Eames?’

‘Holding his own, is all they'll say.’ He shook his head. ‘I tell you, it's been a long night. I . . . I didn't think anyone would . . . Well, it's very, very kind of you to come.’

Poor man. In such pain and here he sat here all alone, except for the guard at his son's door. ‘Do you have family coming in?’

‘No, no. It's just Joshua and me. We're doing fine, though, just fine.’ He was staring at his soup.

‘Mr Eames?’ AnnaLise put her hand on his. ‘I truly don't believe Josh did this.’

And the big, burly man started to cry.

Twenty-five

An hour later they were still sitting at the table. Fred Eames'd had a second bowl of soup – this time chicken noodle at AnnaLise's recommendation – and AnnaLise had joined him. Between them on the table was an asymmetrical haystack of cellophane wrappers from the saltines they'd broken into their bowls after the noodles had been slurped out.

Finally sated, AnnaLise sat back. ‘Delicious. How can something I associate with such an awful period in my life still taste so good?’

‘Maybe because it was the only thing that helped at the time?’

AnnaLise considered. ‘And the nurses. I remember them fondly.’

‘They have been saints,’ Eames said, raising his water bottle in salute. ‘Not one of them has looked at me like . . . well, like some other people have.’

‘You mean like the father of a murderer?’

‘You are a plain-spoken woman, AnnaLise.’

‘I learned it from Joy Tamarack,’ she said. ‘Not to mention being a police reporter.’

‘There's been some of them around here, too,’ Mr Eames said. ‘Though I'm not certain our local papers have police reporters in particular.’

‘Not the weeklies, I'm sure, but the
Observer
most likely does. If you are interviewed by reporters, and I'd suggest you consent to that at least briefly, you should think through in advance the things you want to say. Then, everyone you talk to, keep repeating those same things.’

‘Is that what you wanted your own – what would you call them, interviewees – to do?’

‘Heaven's, no,’ AnnaLise said. ‘I wanted just the opposite, for them to be off the cuff so I could get a striking quote.’

‘Well, I don't rightly know what I should say.’

‘You might ask your lawyer.’

‘Don't have one yet.’

‘Well, you need one. Or, more precisely, Josh does.’

‘The chief told me the same and I'm looking into it.’

AnnaLise wished she had somebody to suggest, but all the attorneys she knew were in Wisconsin – except for Ben Rosewood, of course.

‘They're saying that maybe Josh killed the mother, too,’ Fred Eames said. ‘What with him being on the mountain around the same time.’

Presumably Monday night, when Tanja Rosewood was killed and AnnaLise and her own mother had nearly followed the poor woman over the edge.

‘Which is just plain stupid,’ Eames continued, ‘seeing as we live right there.’

‘Daisy and I were near the bridge, too.’

‘Josh told me so. Said he called nine-one-one for you.’

‘He did,’ AnnaLise said, bobbing her head.

‘Given that, would you maybe know something that might help my son?’

‘I'm afraid not,’ AnnaLise said regretfully. ‘Daisy and I heard what we thought was a shot as we drove up the gravel trail between Ridge Road and the bridge. I just don't know where Josh was at the time.’

‘Could've been on that trail, himself. He tramps through there for a shortcut to our place.’

AnnaLise had been so turned around, literally and figuratively that night, that she had no idea where Josh's truck had come from. ‘If so, that means he couldn't have been on the other end of the bridge, shooting the Porsche's tire out.’

‘That would be mighty good news,’ Mr Eames said. ‘Though I don't know how we'd know for sure, what with Joshua still unconscious.’

‘Even if he weren't,’ AnnaLise said, ‘we'd have to prove it.’

‘I watch the lawyer movies and TV and all,’ Mr Eames said, focusing on her, ‘but I have no idea how to go about “proving” anything. You being a reporter and all, I'm thinking maybe you do.’

‘I'm not an investigator really,’ AnnaLise said. ‘Reporting is mostly about answering the questions your readers have. You know, the “who, when, what, where, why and how”?’

‘Well, that seems a pretty solid start.’

‘It is, if we could get all the answers. You said the police think Josh shot out Tanja Rosewood's tire. Did they say why?’

‘Just that she didn't approve of him and her daughter dating, but I think that's hooey. The father didn't seem to have a problem with it. And if Josh killed every parent who didn't want him to see their little girl . . .’ Eames flushed.

‘Josh does have a reputation as a "bad boy,'’ AnnaLise said with a grin to soften it. 'Which girls love, of course.'

‘And the boy earned it, I'll have to say. But Joshua has straightened up, though some won't believe it.’

‘Well, we'll prove them wrong,’ AnnaLise said. ‘Now tell me the rest of the police's theory. I understand they think Josh shot Suzanne and then himself. Again, why?’

Eames rubbed his beer belly. ‘That's harder to flush out. You can understand they're not giving me a whole lot of information, though I have heard talking out in the hall.’

‘Outside Josh's room?’

‘Sure. On shift changes, the officer taking over might have some update. Best I can tell, the shooting took place in my own living room.’

‘So you haven't been home since it happened?’

‘No, ma'am. Or at least no closer than where I park my car. The police stopped me and when they wheeled Josh out, I just went right along with everybody to the hospital.’

‘Did they say anything about the crime . . . about the scene? Where the gun was and all?’

‘Not where, but one of them did say Josh's fingerprints were on the gun.’

‘Not a good sign.’

‘Unless it was one of ours, which supposedly it was.’

'The gun?' AnnaLise asked. ‘You'll understand that's not exactly encouraging either.’

‘I do. But maybe someone broke in and Josh tried to stop them.’

‘And the assailant got the gun away from Josh and shot both of them?’

‘Had to be a mighty big man,’ Eames admitted. ‘Joshua's no shrimp. And he's not exactly a slouch with a gun, neither, though he does have trouble with killing things. You saw yourself the other day, AnnaLise. The boy couldn't even do in that spider properly. How can they believe my son could, could . . .’ Eames voice broke.

AnnaLise reached across the pile of cracker wrappers. ‘Mr Eames, have you thought at all that maybe it was Suzanne who had the gun?’