Death by Tea (21 page)

22

I started things off with a quick Google of Caleb Jenkins, hoping I'd hit pay dirt right away but knowing it was unlikely. Quite a few links popped up, but after only a couple of clicks, I moved on to the one place where I knew I could go to take a peek into someone's private life.

I'm not sure how people learned about each other without Facebook. In a way, it makes us all stalkers, which is sort of creepy. Not everyone locked their profiles up tight. Some left practically everything out in the open. And with the way things are always changing, even friendly responses to innocuous posts can be seen by people you know. It's not easy protecting yourself, especially these days.

Bad for your privacy.

Good if you want to do some snooping.

I hesitated before clicking the Facebook link. What if I hadn't excised my ex completely? If Robert messaged me now, I was going to hunt him down.

But I couldn't let him stop me. He'd interfered in my life enough already.

I opened the link, typed in Caleb Jenkins's name, and then sat back to let the magic happen. A list of names appeared, pictures and all. I scrolled past kids and old men, and even a few guys that caused me to admire the view before going on. I scrolled past name after name until my eyes started to cross.

And then I found him.

David, or Caleb, or whatever you wanted to call him, looked quite different in his Facebook photograph than he did when I'd met him. His hair hung around his ears like a rug that had been beaten to death, shredded, and then turned into the worst toupee ever. He wore glasses with thick brown frames that were broken in parts. He was wearing, I swear to God, a pair of bright blue running shorts with a long-sleeve button-up shirt beneath a black sleeveless leather jacket. An American flag was proudly displayed on the breast.

I blinked at the photo, trying my best to align what I knew of David Smith with the Caleb Jenkins presented here. I clicked on his name, feeling as if this was some sort of joke, or perhaps an old Halloween photo. This couldn't be the same suave Brit who'd caused nearly every woman who saw or heard him to melt into a quivering pile of sappy goo.

I went straight for his photos and found even more horrible pictures. They all seemed to have been taken at least five years ago, if not longer, judging by how young he looked. Caleb couldn't be any more than eighteen in the pictures, perhaps younger. It was hard to tell with the unruly hair and bad clothing.

A few of the pics showed him sitting astride a scooter that had seen better days. The seat was torn in many places, the tires looked so worn, it was a wonder they hadn't exploded. The handlebars looked crooked and bent, as if the scooter had been wrecked a few too many times and repaired by someone who had no idea what they were doing.

I scanned the pictures in wonder. In each and every one, hidden beneath the poor, dirty biker, David's face looked out at me.

“No way,” I said, clicking through. It was like a train wreck, or maybe a ten-car pileup outside a bikini car wash. Each photograph seemed worse than the last one, yet I couldn't stop staring. My finger kept clicking over and over, mouth slowly falling open until my chin rested comfortably in my lap.

The horror culminated in a picture of Caleb, glasses and flat hair and all, grinning at the camera while wearing one of those awful one-piece swimsuits that was striped red and white. He was wearing combat boots, unlaced, of course.

I backed out of the photographs. I'm not sure what I'd learned exactly, other than David had once been a pretty sad excuse for a man. Not a single picture had shown him with a woman, and it was no wonder. It was as if he was trying to scare them away on purpose. No one dresses like that and thinks they look good.

So the question was, how did Caleb the dork transform into supersexy David Smith?

Or the better question, why?

I suppose he could have simply looked at himself and realized he was going down the wrong path. We all do it at some point in our lives. It was why I was living in Pine Hills, selling coffee, instead of working retail. It was why Vicki wasn't a high-paid actress whose name was known all across the world. Sometimes you just have to step back and see what it is you are doing wrong, and what it is you want out of life.

David had reinvented himself, changed his look, and more than likely his lifestyle. The change helped him with the ladies, which was probably pretty high on most men's wish list of things they would like to do. He became a man who women practically drooled over.

And then he was killed.

Could they be related somehow? If he ran with a scooter gang before his transformation, could they have gotten angry at him for abandoning them? It seemed a little unlikely, but you never knew. He could have gotten mixed up in drugs and had decided he wanted out. It could have triggered his need for change, forced him to come up with a new identity and flee to Cherry Valley.

It made sense, though if I'd been him, I would have taken my Facebook profile down with the rest of my life. It could only hurt him in the long run.

Then again, there was no more long run for David. I scrolled down through his posts, and like I'd assumed would be the case, none of the posts were recent. The last was posted sometime in 2010, and it was just a vague “Still alive and Kicking!” random capitalization and all. It wasn't much to go on.

There was little else listed in his profile that helped. He didn't list a place of employment, not that I thought he'd still work there. I was able to confirm that he did indeed once live in Idaho, but I wasn't about to drive all the way out there, chasing a man who no longer existed. What I needed was information on who he had been now.

At least at this point I had a little more to go on. I closed Facebook and went back to Google and tried again, this time adding “Idaho” to Caleb's name, like I should have done from the start. There were a few articles where he was mentioned, all old and all from his time on the swim team in high school. I was actually surprised he was involved in any sort of sport, what with the way he looked, but I guess you can't judge people solely by appearance. I was learning that firsthand.

I decided to make one more attempt at finding information on David, as Caleb, so I tried his name with the term “Cherry Valley” included in the search. I fully expected to come up blank, especially since he was living under a new name there. Imagine my surprise when I actually got a hit.

The site was for a motorcycle restoration business called Penelope's Restorations. Apparently, they had a blog—doesn't everyone these days—and they listed Caleb Jenkins as a new hire a little less than a year ago. There was nothing else mentioned about him, but I wrote down the name of the place and the address on a slip of paper. If nothing else, it was something to go on.

I closed down the laptop and carried the note to my purse, where I put it with the wallet Justin had given me. I was pretty sure I was the only person involved in the investigation who knew David's other name, which meant I would be the only one looking into his place of employment under said name. I wasn't sure whether it would help me understand what happened to him, but at least I'd be out of Paul's hair, and Buchannan would be out of mine.

“Idaho is a long way from England,” I told Misfit as I headed for a box of puzzles. I was feeling surprisingly energized after my discovery. I'd have to send a gift to Justin for coming to me with the wallet instead of taking it to the police. If they'd gotten hold of it, I never would have learned anything about it until after the case was solved.

“If it ever will be,” I said, setting the crossword book onto the counter while I went to make a coffee. I removed a pair of Jules's cookies from the box that was still sitting on the counter—one to eat, one to soak in the coffee. Yum.

I busied myself for the next hour, actually forgetting about the murder and any other troubles I might have as I worked on the puzzles. I didn't know whether Paul was going to get back with me tonight, and right then I was okay with either. If he showed again, I'd give him the wallet and tell him someone had dropped it off mysteriously on my doorstep.

I absorbed myself into the words—working in pen, of course—and sipped the coffee until all that was left was the gooey mess at the bottom. That, I ate with a spoon.

I finished the first puzzle, contemplated going to bed—it was already well past ten and I needed some sleep since I had to work in the morning—and then turned to the next, anyway. I felt too good to waste the energy on sleep.

A loud bang seemed to shake the entire house, sending Misfit, who'd been dozing next to me on the counter, off like a rocket. I instantly hit the floor, puzzle and pen flying. Lucky for me I'd finished my coffee and hadn't been holding the mug, or else I might have broken it.

I lay on the linoleum, knees and hands throbbing from where I'd smacked into the floor, listening. Had the loud sound been a gunshot?
Was someone shooting at me?
I suddenly wished I'd taken Paul's advice long ago and kept out of the murder business.

My breaths came in shallow gasps as I waited for something else to happen. Time ticked by. There were no other sounds but the barking of a dog down the street. I chanced a look up over the counter but saw nothing. I looked for a hole in the wall, or a busted window, telling me someone had indeed taken a potshot at me, yet if there was one I wasn't seeing it. I knew for a fact the sound had come from somewhere nearby, not down the street, not down the hall or in my bedroom, even. It had been
right here.

I waited another five minutes before rising on unsteady legs. My heart rate had slowed to about the pulse of a racing horse, so I figured I wasn't going to die of a heart attack right then and there. I crept slowly around the counter, eyes wide and alert, as I scanned the windows, watching for a shadow or telltale flicker of light.

There was nothing. “You're okay, Krissy,” I whispered to myself, needing the reassurance. I tiptoed across the room to the front door, hesitated, and then backtracked to the hall closet where I kept my broom. I carried it with me back to the door, fingers clutching so hard that they were starting to hurt. I knew what I was doing was dangerous. If someone was really out there shooting at me, I should have immediately called the police and waited safely behind the counter for them.

But the thought of Paul Dalton rushing in to save the day again was almost too much to bear. I wasn't going to be one of those women who needed saving all the time.

I flipped on the outside light, opened the door, and took a quick peek outside, darting my head out and then back in so fast that if anyone was actually out there waiting for me, they wouldn't have time to shoot before I was gone. No loud bangs followed my peek, so I got braver and opened the door wider. I scanned the yard, the driveway, but no one was there.

And then my eyes fell on the large rock sitting at the edge of my front stoop. It was about the size of a fist, gray like most rocks, and had a folded piece of paper taped to it. I scanned the yard once more to be sure I was truly alone and then opened the screen wide enough that I could scuttle out onto the stoop for the rock, broom clutched in one hand and held at the ready.

No gunshots were immediately evident, so I eased my grip on the broom as I looked down at what I held. The tape was coming off the rock, presumably from the impact of being thrown up against the house. I turned to find a large dent in my screen door.

“Really?” I said loudly. If whoever threw the rock was still out there, I wanted them to hear me. It wasn't the smartest of moves, but I was angry. “You couldn't have aimed for the stoop?” Then again, I guess a dented metal door was better than a busted window. And if they were looking to scare me, they'd succeeded.

I pried off the tape and removed the note from the rock. I leaned toward the outside light where bugs were buzzing about, minding their own business. The note was handwritten. The writing itself was sloppy, slanted in a way that looked cursive but was actually printed. It simply stated, “Leave it alone.” Unfortunately, there was no signature to give the culprit away.

It wasn't too hard for me to figure out what the note was referring to. Chances were good I was getting close to the killer somehow and he or she was getting nervous. I was just glad they decided to leave me a message rather than leave me
as
a message. Small victories, right?

I stood on my stoop and scanned the yard closer this time, hoping to spot a footprint or lost item. Of all the nights not to have Buchannan sitting outside my property in his cruiser, this had to be the one. Or perhaps that was why the rock thrower attacked tonight instead of earlier. They'd have to be pretty dim-witted to make such a move with someone watching.

My eyes immediately darted toward Eleanor Winthrow's house. Buchannan might not have been there to see whoever threw the rock, but I knew someone who might have. An inside light was on in her house, and I could see Eleanor silhouetted at the window. She was watching me, and for once I was glad.

I set my broom aside and marched across the yard. The light snapped off even before I was halfway over, but I was determined. There was no Buchannan here to save her this time. She was going to talk to me.

The house was silent as I stepped up to the front door. I knocked on it for a good minute to no result.

“Eleanor!” I called, knowing she could hear me. I wouldn't be surprised if she was pressed to the door, listening. “I know you saw something. Let me in so we can talk.”

There was a moment of silence before a faint “Go away!”

I knocked on the door some more. “Eleanor . . .” It came out sounding a lot like how my mom would say my name when I was in trouble as a kid. “Open this door right now so we can talk. I need to know what you saw.”