Grilling the Subject (13 page)

I didn't. Not really. I had to work hard to drum up details, but boy, was I glad I had. Mrs. McCartney's shoulders relaxed. Her friend beamed at me.

“Shame about Sylvia Gump,” I said.

“Shame, indeed,” Mrs. McCartney said. “Nasty personality, but no one deserves to burn to death.”

“You live in the area, don't you?” I asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“I heard you saw my father that morning. What were you doing out so early?”

“Silly Mellie”—she jutted a thumb at her friend—“lost her cat. She called me in a panic. There we were, rambling through the neighborhood, hunting with flashlights.” She glanced at Mellie. “I don't go out of my way for humans, but I will always help search for a cat. I have five of my own. I know what curious creatures they can be.”

“My poor kitty.” Mellie smiled as though the whole affair had been fun. “She was having a litter beneath the house. I didn't even know she was pregnant. She sure gets around.”

Mrs. McCartney said, “Neither of us believes in spaying, but we always find homes for our four-legged friends.”

“Yes, we do.” Mellie clawed the air and Mrs. McCartney mirrored her, like they were performing a sorority pledge.

Together they chimed, “The best things in life are furry.”

In spite of myself, I was starting to like both of them.

“I was gathering up the last one,” Mrs. McCartney went on, “when I saw your father leaving the house with a fishing pole.”

To confirm, I said, “You said it was dark.”

“No, I said we were using flashlights.”

“Was it dark?”

“It might have been.”

“If it was, that means it was before sunrise, which occurred at quarter to six.”

“So?” She sniffed.

“The fire started around six
A.M.
”

“What are you now, a forensics expert?”

Mellie nicked her friend with a knuckle. “Be nice.”

I said, “Mrs. McCartney, did you tell the police that it was dark when you saw my father?”

“They didn't ask. I merely said I saw him. That established his whereabouts.”

“Way before the fire,” I said. “He went fishing.”

“I can't confirm that.” She pursed her lips.

“Did you see him near Sylvia Gump's house?”

“I can't attest to that, either, but that's the rumor.”

“Because of you. You implicated him!”

“Don't raise your voice at me, young lady.” She wagged a finger. “I can't help it if people take what I say the wrong way.”

“But—” I was dumbfounded. Didn't she realize what she had done?

“Oh, listen, Mellie,” Mrs. McCartney said. “They're singing ‘You Are My Sunshine.' That's my favorite song. I don't want to miss it!” She nabbed her friend's arm. “By the way, Jenna, that ginger cat of yours is the most adorable thing. If you ever find he's too much for you, I'll be glad to take him in.”

They departed in a hurry, leaving me speechless.

“Who are you staring at?” a woman said from behind.

I spun around. Cinnamon was staring at me. She was dressed in uniform and standing with her hands on her hips, looking very official.

“Wh-what?” I stammered, knowing exactly
what
. She had caught me chatting with a witness. “I can talk to the locals.”

Cinnamon tipped her head but didn't utter a word.

“Fine,” I blurted. “Yes, I was questioning Mrs. McCartney about seeing my father on the morning Sylvia was killed.” So much for my ability to lie. I would be terrible under interrogation. Who needed truth serum? I was ready to blab everything. My mother had been as skilled at intimidation as Cinnamon.

She:
Did you take the last cookie, Jenna?

I:
Who me? Why, yes, I did, Mom.
No hesitation.

“My father is under suspicion, Chief,” I said. “What do you expect me to do, sit on my hands? Is that what you're doing?” My cheeks stung with anger. Why, oh, why did she bring out the worst in me? We were friends. When she wasn't investigating a murder, we went out for coffee. She liked a latte with a double hit of espresso. If I know something like that, shouldn't we be able to trust one another? And, honestly, a few months ago, she had asked me to keep my eyes and ears open on another case. Granted, she had rescinded that request a day later, and at the foodie truck event earlier she had warned me to butt out.

“Jenna, I—”

“Look, I know you adore my father and want him to be as innocent as I do. And I know you're doing all you can.” I chopped a hand against a palm to make my point. “However, please listen. Mrs. McCartney told you she saw Dad in the vicinity, but she didn't say when, and it was way earlier than you think.”

“Are you sure?”

“She told me it was dark. That means it was before
sunrise. She said she never gave the police a specific time because no one asked. Don't you see? She meant to get Dad in trouble.” I sighed. “Her new statement, seeing him pre-dawn, should be enough to exonerate him.”

Cinnamon shook her head. “I'm sorry, but Sylvia Gump could have died closer to that time. The coroner is working on the time frame.”

“But the fire! Dad was long gone by the time it lit up. And Ronald Gump smelled smoke at six, right?”

“We don't know that your father was
long gone
.”

“Sure we do. He said so.”

“Jenna, we need someone”—Cinnamon spoke slowly, like she was tutoring a challenged child, namely
me
—“who saw your father away from the crime scene. Far away. Say at the lake.”

I regarded her for a long moment, and then, heedless of the flak I would take for visiting the site, said, “I found a cuff link at the crime scene.”

Cinnamon exhaled through her nose.

“There was no police tape,” I added. “It's my father's property.”

“It's communal property.” She offered one of her infamous glares. Where had she learned that? In cop school? My boss at Taylor & Squibb had her beat. Whenever he was unhappy, he glowered like a feral saber-toothed tiger. The look had sent shivers to my toes. Cinnamon's didn't.

I met her stare. “I went there to see if I could find something that might point the finger at somebody other than my father. Bucky said—” I balked. Bad me. I didn't need to bring her boyfriend into it.

“I heard him. He said we found a steak sauce cap.”

How much had he suffered for that blooper?

“That could have been there for weeks,” Cinnamon added, “because of Sylvia's infamous parties.”

I shifted my feet. “Initials were etched on the cuff link that I found:
SM.
Did you ask Shane Maverick his alibi?”

“Jenna, stop.” Cinnamon held up a hand. “Did it occur to you that the initials on the cuff link might belong to Sylvia? Her maiden name is May. Sylvia May.
SM.
”

I didn't back down. “Why would she wear cuff links?”

“She sells them in her store,” she stated. “Why would Shane wear them?”

Exactly the question I'd asked myself while nosing around. “Maybe he took them to Sylvia to polish for his impending nuptials. Did you know Sylvia tried to purchase the house Shane bought, but Ava blocked her? What if Sylvia threatened to bar the sale? What if that made Shane so angry he lashed out? Also, I found a piece of red fabric in the rubble of the brick wall.”

“The wall beyond the crime scene?”

“Yes. D'Ann Davis's signature color is red. What if she—”

“Don't you like D'Ann?”

“Of course I do, but somebody killed Sylvia, and it wasn't my father. Did you see the fabric? What if D'Ann and Sylvia fought? D'Ann wears those hair thingies, and—”

“Jenna, time out.” Cinnamon formed a T with her hands, then softened her voice. “I love your Dad. You know that.” I had never seen her cry, but she seemed near tears.

“He didn't do it.”

“But I've got to
prove
it. Do you understand? I'm scouring the area for witnesses. I've talked to some men who are working a landslide project down the road. None were in the neighborhood at that hour. I questioned a few construction workers, too. Same thing: too early. By the way, in my next life, I want to be Mrs. Tyvek.” She offered a quirky smile, obviously trying to ease the tension between us. Tyvek isn't a person. It's the name of a product used to paper frames of new house construction. Just look around, and you'll see it. The DuPont company owns the trademark. I know because I did an ad for a competitor.

“I didn't think you were into money,” I quipped.

“I'm not. Neither is Bucky. But we want to own a house
bigger than his one-room flat or the fiasco I call home. Public servants don't get paid enough.”

“My father will give you a loan when you're ready.”

Cinnamon barked out a bitter laugh. “Oh yeah, that would be just what I need, someone in town thinking I'm letting your father off the hook because he loaned me cash.”

“I see your point. Hey,” I said, my mind in overdrive, “were there any kids waiting for the bus at six
A.M.
Wednesday morning?”

“No. Too early.”

“What about gardeners?”

“None are allowed to start until after seven
A.M.
; it's a city ordinance.”

“But maybe there were a few in their trucks, raring to go.”

“Please, Jenna, I will clear your father. I promise. Stay away from this investigation.”

I didn't nod. I was done with lying.

I
joined Rhett in
line, and, after we nabbed two beers and two hot dogs, we returned to the sing-along and stood at the outer rim of the crowd, which was crooning “The Streets of Laredo.” A young cowboy had done wrong. We joined in the last verse, and a pall settled over the crowd. There was nothing happy about hearing that a young man was shot down, especially when you didn't know the crime he had committed. I thought of Sylvia. What had she done to make someone want to impale her and burn her?

“What's wrong?” Rhett asked, then shook his head. “Dumb question. Your dad. Sylvia. Got it. Are you okay?”

I snuggled into him. “I'll be fine,” I said.
Bullpuckey
, as Bailey would say.

A couple of hours later, with our throats raw from singing, Rhett walked me home. We held hands. I loved the closeness. By the time we reached my cottage, Rhett had wrapped his arm around my back, and I was feeling tingly to my toes.
He kissed me on the porch, gently and tenderly, occasionally swatting an errant moth that wanted to spoil the mood.

After the fifth moth swatting, I giggled and said, “Would you like to come inside?”

“If I do, I won't leave, and I have to be up early. I've got a date with Old Jake and some of his buddies.”

Old Jake was a gnarled and weathered man in his midseventies who had drifted into town when my father was a teen. Though he and my father were a good decade apart, thanks to a rich history between them, they had become good friends. I sighed. If only Jake had gone fishing with Dad Wednesday morning.

Rhett added, “I promised the guys that I'd take them cowboy fishing.”

“You're making that up.”

“I'm not.”

“What the heck is cowboy fishing?”

“Fishing for something that you can tell a tall tale about.”

“Ha-ha!” I smacked his arm.

He drew me in for another long, luscious kiss, and whispered, “How about going to see the pole-bending event with me tomorrow afternoon?”

“I've got things to do at the shop,” I murmured.

“Ask your aunt to cover for you.”

How many times could I beg off from work? We needed another assistant. Could we afford one? Yes. Sales had been booming.

“C'mon,” Rhett said.

I grinned. “Okay. Why don't I meet you there around four?”

“Sounds great. Until then.”

He kissed me again, and I felt like I'd been drugged with a love potion. I pressed open the door to my cottage. My knees were weak, but not too weak to walk in without stumbling. I wouldn't want the guy to think I was head over heels in love with him.

As he drove off, I switched on a light and bolted the door. Tigger didn't pounce at my feet, however. That was when I detected a scent, a very familiar scent, heavy with lime and mandarin oranges and a hint of cedarwood and spice—Clive Christian cologne.

My breath caught in my chest. And suddenly he was on me. His hand on my mouth. His arm cupping my back. I couldn't scream. I didn't want to. Slowly he released his hold.

“David! How . . . why . . . you're alive!” I felt the floor rushing up, the ceiling caving in. “Is it really you? I only drank one beer. I'm not tipsy.”

“Yeah, it's me, hon,” my nondeceased husband said. He had never called me sweetheart or babe, always hon, short for
honey
.

“Let me go.”

He did. I whacked his chest.

“Ow!”

I smacked it again. “You. Were. Declared. Dead!”

Tigger darted to us, mewling his concern. Apparently the little traitor, who I had believed until now was a good alarm cat, liked my dearly nondeparted. He weaved in and out between our legs, tail brushing, questioning.

I thumped David's chest again.

Tigger yowled.

“Hush, cat.” I pushed away from my husband—Was he my husband if he wasn't deceased? What was the statute of limitations on marriage vows?—and roamed in a circle, balling and releasing my fists. “The police thought I might have killed you. I mourned. We all mourned. And then I found your note—” I halted. “How did you get inside?”

“You left the door unlocked.”

“I don't do that.”

“You did this time.”

In my haste to get to the sing-along, maybe I had. How
unlike
me. Especially given the fact that I had been so edgy lately.

“Was it you spying on me outside my shop?” I folded my
arms across my chest, shielding myself with imaginary armor, and took in David. His eyes were hangdog; his face, sort of slack. “Well? Was it?”

He didn't deny it.

“And on the beach the other day? And outside the cabin? And again tonight?”

“I couldn't find the courage to approach you. You seemed so content. So easy with your life. I even followed you to where that woman was killed.”

“That was you trailing me down my father's hillside? You made a noise.”

“And hid behind a boulder.”

All that time, I believed I was going nuts. I mentally crossed the therapist appointment off my list, but then added it right back. My husband was alive!

“I've been living like a bum in the Prius,” David went on, “waiting for the right moment.”

“Your note said you were going to kill yourself.” I stumbled toward the couch.

“Jenna, I . . .” His mouth was thin, quivering. Where had he been? What had he been going through? What could have driven him to break my heart? He moved toward me.

I held up my hand, warning him to stay back. “David.” I had often said his name in a prayer; now it sounded dirty and mean.

He was dressed exactly the way I'd seen him last, in a white shirt and jeans, his hair tousled. He extended his arms. “I'm sorry, hon. There's no excuse.”

“No excuse?” I eyed a stack of cooking magazines on the coffee table and considered using them as ammunition. One by one. Mini missiles to take him down. “You let me believe—” I jammed my fist into my mouth and bit back a scream.

He drew nearer. “Jenna, I'm sorry.”

I raised a warning hand. He froze. “You bilked your clients,” I said. “I found the evidence.”

“I regret that, every day of my life.”

“I didn't find your note for two years. Two!”

“About that. I don't understand why it took you so long.”

I did. The weight of it dragged on me. “Because your mother asked to be useful. She was supposed to clean out your gym locker. She couldn't bring herself to do it.”

“Does she—”

“Know what you did?” I wagged my head. “No, I never told her. I made as many reparations as I could with the gold coins you hid in the lucky cat statue.”

“You didn't have to. The debt was mine and mine alone.”

“I couldn't have lived with myself otherwise.” I growled. “Those dratted gold coins.” I started to shiver; my mouth was dry. “Why are you here?”

“I need to make peace with you before I die.”

I scoffed. “Now you're dying? Like, for real?” I couldn't believe how flip I sounded, but after what he had put his family and me through . . . “What are you dying from, David? Tell me.”

“Renal failure. CKD or chronic kidney disease.”

“People don't die from that.”

“Yes, they do, if they only have one kidney left.”

“One?”

“I lost one as a kid. I never told you.” His face twisted with so much pain, he had to be telling the truth. This time.

I sagged against the couch and braced myself with my hands. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be.”

“Why did you fake your death?”

“Because I was wicked. Corrupt. I deserved to die.”

“But in the end, you couldn't do it.”

He nodded.

“Where did you disappear to?”

“Nevada and Arizona and Colorado. I went to New Mexico, too. You always wanted to go there. It's pretty.”

“Stop!” I bounded to my feet, anger rearing its lovely head again. “Why grace me with your presence?”

“I need to make restitution. I need your forgiveness. I have less than a month to live.”

“A month?”

“Just so you know, I've surrendered to the San Francisco police for my crimes, but they were surprisingly understanding, given the circumstances. They've allowed me a week to put my affairs in order. I'll serve out the rest of my time in jail.”

“You're lying.”

“Remember Detective Dyerson, who handled the case?”

Did I ever. She and I had talked ad infinitum about my possible guilt.
Where is your husband? How good a sailor is he? There's no body.

David pulled a cell phone from his jeans pocket and stabbed in a number. “Detective Dyerson? My wife . . . Jenna Hart . . . would like to speak with you.” He pressed the speakerphone option and offered me the cell phone.

I grabbed it, but I didn't know what to say. How did I know this wasn't a scam? How could I be certain the woman on the other end of the line wasn't someone David had paid to snow me?

“I never thanked you for the note you wrote me last year,” Dyerson said, cluing me in immediately that she was legitimate. I had written after finding David's suicide letter. “Thank you”—she hesitated—“although now it feels a little anticlimactic, doesn't it?” She let out a low, throaty laugh. “How are you?”

“I'm with a man I believed was dead. How would you be?”

“Not as shocked as you, I imagine. How is your father?”

“Do you know about—” I hesitated. I didn't need to share Dad's predicament. “He's okay.”

“Still a do-gooder?” she went on. “I remember the two of us talking about all the houses he built for Habitat for Humanity.” The woman had taken pains to pull that information from my father; he never bragged about it.

“Yes. He's a very good do-gooder.” And
not guilty
. But
back to the current situation. “David tells me you've given him time to sort out his affairs.”

“That's true.”

“And he's not lying about his health?”

“No, ma'am. I've seen the doctor's report. He's end-stage, if he didn't tell you.”

End-stage
, I thought.
Terminal.

“He has given your address as his current location, is that correct?” Dyerson asked.

I glanced at David. He smirked. Not in a bad way. In the impish way he used to, whenever he made plans and didn't consult me.

“Ma'am?” the detective said.

Please
, David mouthed.

I remembered the moment I met David. We were at a fraternity party. I'd broken up with a full-of-himself jock. David was standing alone by a window holding a glass of wine. He offered me a sip and told me he was thinking about becoming an investment banker. He was smart. Funny. And not at all full of himself. In fact, he was self-deprecating. We talked for hours. The connection was intense. Yes, he hurt me to the core when he ran from his life . . .
our
life . . . but I had to help him this one last time.

“Yes, that's right, Detective.”

“Good,” she said. “What is your personal contact number?”

I gave it to her.

She thanked me and wished me well.

I ended the call and faced David. What a trusting soul the detective was to let him walk, but then how many of her suspects, or in this case dead bodies, waltzed back into her life and reopened a case with the promise to close the case for good in four weeks?

Putting worry about my father on the back burner, I said, “You're here. Talk.”