Killer Closet Case: a Danger Cove B&B Mystery (Danger Cove Mysteries Book 6) (14 page)

I released an exaggerated sigh complete with condescending eye roll. "I guess I'm just glad you're both okay. How'd you find out about the arraignment time change?"

"Uncle Eddie was on the porch when we got back to the Ocean View."

"Bradley," Mom squealed, waving with one hand and blowing kisses with the other.

Mr. Ashland cleared his throat and motioned my brother toward him. "Can I discuss a few things with you before we begin?"

Bradley got up and started speaking legalese with him, so Cris attached herself to my arm again, this time with a giddy fervor, bouncing a bit in her seat.

She beamed up at me. "We spent the whole night walking on Two Mile Beach, talking about anything and everything." Her expression fell somber. "Do you know the last time this happened to me?"

"Uh," I muttered. "With Max?"

She snorted in disgust and stuck out her tongue. "Please, I never even knew his middle name." She glanced over at my brother, the sunny smile returning. "Never." She turned back toward me. "Ever. I've literally
never
had a guy even scratch the surface. Not that I'd really ever wanted them to. Until now." She leaned forward just a bit and looked at Mal, then back to me, waggling her brow. "Hmm?"

I shook my head and fought the dopey grin tugging at my lips. Though I doubted her statement in the actual literal sense, I hadn't ever seen her this happy.

"Everyone, please rise," the hulking bailiff bellowed from beside the bench. "The honorable judge Elmer J. Barrett presiding."

Everyone stood as the hefty older man in a long black robe appeared from the door my parents had come out and lumbered up the few steps to his bench.

"You may be seated." He scooted his chair up to the desk as he sat, shifting his gavel to the other side. Then he slipped a pair of reading glasses onto the end of his nose and shuffled through the files, opening one. "Our first case this morning is an arraignment for The People versus John and Janet Milford." He looked at Ashland over the top of his glasses. "How do you plead against the two counts of first-degree murder against John Milford?"

I fidgeted in my seat, but Mal grabbed my hands, which disappeared within his. Just his touch alone calmed my nerves to a manageable hum but simultaneously rattled other parts of my anatomy to quite a different kind of hum.

The attorney groaned as he pushed himself to his feet. "Not guilty, Your Honor."

"And the two charges of accessory to these murders against Janet Milford, how do you plead?

Ashland repeated, "Not guilty, Your Honor."

Judge Barrett glanced back and forth between the file and Ashland for a few seconds. "Well, due to the fact that we have the murder weapon with the defendant's prints on it, the gun used to shoot both men, and a signed affidavit from a witness claiming Mr. Milford was the last one to see the first victim alive, and
that
was during a fight between the two, I must admit my first instinct is to deny bail."

My hands flew from Mal's to cover my mouth and squelch the hate-filled words I wanted to spew. Patricia must have marched down to the police station in her pink robe and kitten heels to give a statement about my father's argument with the closet guy in her driveway at some point.

"But," the judge continued, "since the Milfords are a prominent, upstanding part of Danger Cove, I'm setting bail at two hundred fifty thousand dollars each."

I burst into tears. He might as well have denied it altogether. I barely had ten dollars left to my name.

Bradley leaned across Cris and grabbed my wrist, whispering, "That's only fifty thousand that Mom and Dad have to pay."

"Only?" I spat.

"They've got that in savings, I'm sure."

Mom turned around and nodded, her brow knit but a smile lighting her face. "The bank will cut you a cashier's check for us. I'll call and make sure."

Relief washed over me.

"Your Honor," Mr. Wolfe bellowed, slapping a hand to his table in a grandstanding move to garner attention, no doubt. "I beg of you to check their previous addresses and how often the Milfords have moved around. That alone should prove them a flight risk and force you to reconsider."

Judge Barrett flipped through the file a little farther. "Mr. Wolfe, you are right." He released a reluctant sigh that said he really wished the pompous ass hadn't been correct. "I'm afraid that bail is denied. The defendants will remain in custody here until they can be moved to the state facility first thing Monday morning, where they will await trial." He slammed his gavel down.

It resonated through every cell in my body.

"No," I whispered, shaking my head emphatically. "What about the evidence we found?" I muttered in shock, leaping to my feet as the bailiff shuffled toward my parents. "No!" I screamed, reaching across to my mother as they cuffed one of her hands again. Desperation consumed me as I leaned over the railing, grasping for her, needing her more than I ever had before, even as a child.

She slipped into my embrace, rocking me back and forth as the tears streamed down both of our faces. "It's going to be okay, my sweet baby girl. Shhh," she cooed.

"I'm going to do whatever it takes to prove that you and Dad are innocent," I blubbered against her shoulder.

She pushed the bangs from my forehead with her free hand, leaning me back just a bit, and placed a sweet, lingering kiss there. With her lips still at my brow, she murmured, "I know you will. I love you so very much."

Bradley placed a hand on my shoulder and patted Dad's arm with the other. "We both will."

The bailiff tugged Mom away from me without warning, pulling her and Dad toward the door. My knees wobbled from the sudden shift and my body's inability to absorb all that had just happened, buckling my legs underneath me. Mal swooped in, grabbing me as I sunk to the floor, softening my blow. He dropped to the ground next to me, scooping me into his arms and holding me tightly as I sobbed.

I pushed the porch swing with one foot, taking a bit of comfort from the swaying motion and wisps of the afternoon breeze that rustled their way through the trees to brush my face.

Mal came out through the front door, a bag of cheese curls in one hand and a two-liter of cola in the other. "Not exactly gourmet, but damn tasty." He slid onto the swing next to me and took over the rocking as he handed me the bag. "You wouldn't eat anything of the lunch I actually made an effort toward, so I figured maybe you were in more of the junk-food zone."

I glanced down at what was normally my go-to for snacks, but my stomach clenched at the thought of eating anything. Fear had me firmly in its grip and was whipping my insides about like a rabid coyote with its latest prey. I shook my head.

He kept the rhythm of the swing steady but shifted to look at me. "You have to eat something. Name it, and I'll go get it."

I answered with a forlorn sigh and dropped my head against his shoulder.

"Please?"

I jammed my hand into the bag, hastily pulled out a tiny cheese curl, and shoved it into my mouth just to make him happy.

"I guess that'll have to do for now." He fell silent, and we rocked for a few minutes, listening to the groan of the chains. Nudging me, he said, "I have to go replace a few vandalized paver stones at Mrs. Winstead's house. Will you be okay?"

I thought back to Detective Marshall telling me about Mrs. Winstead's matchmaking skills. "Sophia still in town?"

He bobbed his head. "Aye. It's doubtful Mrs. Winstead will ever stop meddling until that granddaughter of hers picks a worthy husband."

"It appears one has already been picked." Jealousy wriggled through my other problems, but I tamped it down, forcing myself back into my numb zombie state. "I think she's just waiting for you to take notice. You know, get your butt out of the batter's box and step up to the plate already."

"I'll have to call in a pinch hitter. This batter has no intention of stepping up to
that
plate." He winked and patted my leg. "So, you'll be okay for a bit?"

I really wanted to know what a pinch hitter was and if I should be flattered, but I was the one who had started the baseball metaphors. "I'm fine."

He slid a hand across my cheek and into my hair. "No, you're not, but I'll be back in no time. I'm sure Cris and Bradley are around here somewhere."

I rolled my eyes and pretended that his hand on my face wasn't causing my insides to melt into goo. "I don't need anyone to entertain me. Just go already."

Before removing his hand completely, he patted my cheek. "I'll bring back pizza. You can either eat by your own free will, or I'll force-feed you." He stood and looked down at me. "Your choice, and I'm not afraid to do it."

"Gee, thanks." I watched his nice, firm hind end (I mean, him) walk down the stairs. As he was climbing into his truck, I spotted Patricia on her porch, admiring the view as well. I couldn't resist, so I added, "Now, go visit your future wife. I'm sure she's missed you."

They both turned and glared at me. For a few short seconds I felt better just out of spite. Determined to start interviewing people in town now that my pity party was winding down, I abandoned my post in the swing and made my way to the front door to find Bradley for backup. I'd promised my mom, and I always kept my promises.

I grabbed the newspaper from in front of the door as I opened the screen. Normally, when I'd grabbed it each day, I hadn't even glanced at it. It had just gone directly on the front counter for anyone who might be interested in the local news. This time, I couldn't help but notice the headline: "Couple Charged with Slaughtering Two. Daughter Suspiciously Silent, Sealing the Sentence," written by Duncan Pickles.

I scanned the first few lines, which basically all but convicted my parents to death and hinted to me as an accomplice, and let the door slam shut. Anger coursed through my body. I shook violently, throwing it as far as I could into the front yard across the street, screaming at the top of my lungs the entire time it was airborne. I turned and glanced at Patricia on her porch, her penciled-on brow arched into her bangs as she inched backward toward her front door. I took a tiny bit of joy at the look of fear on her face. She slipped into her house but quickly made her way to the window facing me, peeking out through the curtains.

I stood there, staring across the road at where the paper had landed, the words I'd read burning through my brain. I remembered passing the newspaper office on the way home from a jog, and it wasn't far. A walk might actually calm me down some. I flew down the stairs, stomped along the sidewalk, and stormed my way to the building. It was all an angry blur of homes and businesses along the way, my anger increasing with each step instead of waning. The next thing I knew, I was standing in front of the editor, practically steaming from my ears.

The wiry, graying man leaned back in his chair, seemingly unfazed by my anger, and laced his long fingers in his lap. "I don't know what to tell you. I edited that piece myself and didn't see any problems."

I slapped my palms on his desk and leaned across it, my gaze narrowing on his. "You didn't see any problem with painting my parents as murderers before there was even a trial? You didn't think that maybe you could focus on a few facts instead of trumped-up conjecture?"

"Hey," he fussed, leaning forward with his hands out, obviously expecting me to back away.

But I didn't.

He scooted his seat back so he could sit up straight, making it almost look like that's what he'd meant to do. He pushed his thick-rimmed glasses back up to the bridge of his nose, but they promptly slid back down, forcing him to raise his chin.

I'd seen confusion narrow his eyes briefly, so I stood my ground. "I demand a retraction in tomorrow's paper. Front page."

"So, you have new information to prove your parents are innocent?" He crossed his arms over his chest, a single brow rising on his forehead.

I felt an evil smile slowly curl my lips, reveling in the anger that stirred within me, which eclipsed the earlier pain. "I believe you are forgetting one tiny little smidgeon of important information about our justice system. It's 'innocent until proven guilty,' not the other way around. There is no guilty verdict against either of my parents and absolutely no files charged against me. My brother works for a prominent law firm in Seattle." I left off the part about him being an intern just so I could watch the man squirm in his chair, his expression wavering between anger and fear. I straightened my spine, my chin hitched in stubborn defiance. "Slander charges will be filed against you and Mr. Pickles. Hell, we'll file one against this entire newspaper business." I spread my arms open wide and glanced around at the desks. The huge room was sectioned off into sparsely populated cubicles, the biggest one housing the man I was currently
conversing
with. "Unless there is a front-page retraction in tomorrow's paper. Are we clear?"

He stood, towering over me, but I kept my bold facade in place.

He nodded. "I'll see to it myself."

"Thank you." I spun on my heels and strutted confidently from the building, only to come face to face with the shady reporter responsible for my crappy mood. He eased himself out of his sedan at the curb, eyeballing me the entire time.

I also noticed Mal's truck and trailer parked in the lot just across the street. I briefly pondered what business he might have at the paper before it dawned on me that I could be the reason he was there.

Duncan's arrogant expression twisted into a smug sneer. "By the look on your face, I gather you read my article." He puffed out his chest a little more. "I did warn you."

I crept toward him, feeling kind of like the wolf that'd been mutilating my insides earlier. I backed him toward the curb, his egocentric expression fading a little more with each of my deliberate steps. I channeled my inner Cristal. "I believe we warned you as well," I seethed, standing right in front of him, ogling his tie giddily.

Mal darted across the road toward me, bellowing, "Bree, please don't give him any ammunition against you!"

Before Mal made it across the road, Duncan muttered, "Great, you called in another lapdog."

"Uh," I muttered, pressing a finger behind my ear and turning it toward him as Mal came to a stop beside me. "I'm not sure I heard you correctly. Did you just call Malcolm O'Connell here a lapdog?"

Mal's jaw set as he looked back and forth between us. "Excuse me? How did I get pulled into the name calling?"

Duncan tried to push past us, but Mal was now an impenetrable fortress, keeping him pinned on the tiny sliver of sidewalk I'd allowed him in front of his car.

The reporter stood tall, tugging his shirt straight and hitching his nose in the air. "This really doesn't concern you, sir. It's between me and the
little lady
." He swept a hand toward me, but Mal stepped closer to him. By the look of Pickles' scared, puckered face, that wasn't what he'd been going for.

Poking a finger gently against the man's chest, Mal inched him backward even farther. "I believe you owe this
little lady
an apology, not the condescending tone."

Duncan wobbled and slipped off the curb, falling back against his vehicle just as an older, uniformed officer on patrol strolled by in front of the newspaper office. Screaming and moaning as though he'd just been shot, Duncan shouted, "Did you see that, Officer Fields? This man just pushed me. I want him arrested for assault."

The portly officer just shook his head, fighting a smile. "Mr. Pickles, I saw your foot slip off of the curb on your own accord. Nice try though." He tipped his hat and walked on past us.

"Um," Duncan stalled, staring up and down the quiet street, molding himself against his car. "I'm, uh, sorry for whatever it is that this man feels I owe you an apology." He waved a hand back and forth between us like a white flag of surrender.

I released a huge sigh of frustration, stemming from the fact that he wouldn't admit any wrongdoing on his part. "Just so you know," I spat, "there will be a retraction of your story in tomorrow's paper. I've already spoken with your editor." I patted him on the shoulder and straightened his tie just to see the nervous twitch on his lip. That was good enough for me. "You have yourself a great afternoon."

I pushed my hand through the crook of Mal's arm, and we walked across the street as if I'd planned on him coming to my aid the entire time.

Safely out of anyone's earshot, I turned toward Mal. "Not that I needed backup, but thanks for coming down here and keeping me from strangling him. Two incarcerated people per family at a time is probably the Danger Cove limit. How'd you know where I was though?"

"Are you kidding?" He snickered. "I could hear you screaming over my diesel truck engine. I circled back by and was hoping you'd simmer down a wee bit if you walked off the anger I could see on that bonnie face of yours. I followed the black storm cloud over your head at a distance all the way here. I'd seen the headline earlier in the day, so the closer we got to this place"—he bobbed his head toward the newspaper office—"the more I figured it out on my own. I was going to leave you be, until you cornered Pickles. The look in your eyes? Well, I didn't see anything positive coming from it."

I shrugged and glanced back across the street at the office building, scanning the windows for any sign of the giant, pompous ass. "I'm sure I'd have been able to restrain myself."

Mal snickered. "Whatever you say,
little lady
."

"Fine, then." I swatted playfully at him. "I'm mostly sure I
could
have. The doubt, however, lies in if I
would
have."

He opened the passenger door on his huge workhorse of a truck and waved the other hand toward it. "Can I drop you back by the bed and breakfast? It's on my way."

"Oh, right," I drew out as I accepted his help, climbing into the seat. "You still have a date with your betrothed."

His expression fell into a blank mask as he closed my door and rounded to his side. As he got in, he chided, "The woman always has pastries. I'm going for the food."

"And the work?" I asked over the rumble of his engine.

"That too." His head bobbed as he drove out of the lot.

"Can you drop me off at the salon my mom uses, the Clip and Sip? I want to ask them a few questions. Maybe they can help me prove my parents' innocence."

He turned the truck in the opposite direction of the B&B. "Sure. Would you like me to stick around or go with you?"

"And keep you from your destiny? Not in a million."

Within just a few minutes he was pulling up in front of the Clip and Sip, an older Victorian that had been fixed up nicely. It had a large, open front porch and a placard hanging over the entrance, touting the name.

Mal turned toward me as I opened the door. "Think you can behave for a little while, or do I need to call in backup for this too?"

I shook my head as the only response to his condescending tone while I slid from his monster truck and walked up the front walk. "Thanks for the ride!" I bellowed over my shoulder without even turning around to acknowledge him until I heard him driving away. His hand flipped up between the seats, waving, so I knew he'd seen me look.