Crops and Robbers (22 page)

Did Gardner’s Tomatoes being on the list mean anything at all? Maybe not.

But why had Betsy acted strangely about the list? Why had she made such a big deal about wanting it back?

Was she just protective of her dead boss’s memory?

Something told me that wasn’t it. But nothing told me what it really was.

I was running out of time, so I had to abandon my study and take a shower.

Hobbit would stay with George again, so once I was ready, we loaded ourselves back in the truck. I was feeling better about my home being my home, but I still wasn’t ready to leave Hobbit alone.

“Baby steps,” I told her as we drove back to town.

She nudged my arm again, letting me know she was just fine hanging with George.

 

 

“There’s my girl,” George said as he opened his back door and
reached for Hobbit’s ears.

She was just as happy to see him.

“Notice anything different?” George said to me as he straightened and adjusted the glasses on his nose.

“Your glasses are different,” I said. “They look nice.”

“No, they don’t. They’re atrocious, but I can see a little better and it’s worth it.”

George told us that he’d dealt with vision issues all his life, but they’d gotten much worse over the last decade or so.

“That’s good news,” I said as I inspected the thick lenses barely contained inside the black plastic frames. They looked so heavy I wondered if his nose hurt.

“It is good. I won’t pass any important vision tests. I still won’t be able to drive, but I trust myself to walk down the street at a pace faster than a crawl. How would you feel if Hobbit and I ventured out a bit? I feel anxious to see if . . . well, if I can see.”

“I think that’s a great idea,” I said, knowing that George’s street wasn’t busy and Hobbit would do fine on a leash. “She loves to go for walks.”

“Goodie,” he said. “Oh, oh, hang on, I’m supposed to give you a message. I was so excited that I almost forgot. Ian can’t go to dinner, but he said that the police officer will meet you downtown at the police station and the two of you can go.”

I was silent long enough that if George’s vision hadn’t been improved, he might have thought I left already.

“Becca? Everything okay?”

“Of course,” I lied. “Thanks for letting me know.”

I didn’t want to go to dinner with Sam and without Ian. Something strange was going on between Sam and me, and I could ignore it better if someone else, particularly my boyfriend, was with us.

George continued. “Ian said he just tried to call you, and since he knew you were on your way here, he left me the message. He did leave you a voice mail, and he apologizes for standing you up. He’s having installation issues that can’t be ignored, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to answer the phone if you called him back.” George was making sure he didn’t leave out any details.

I pulled my cell phone out of my jeans pocket. The missed-call and message indicator light was blinking. I’d probably had the radio up too loud. I’d check the message later. It was probably a repeat of what George had just said.

“Thanks, George. I appreciate it.”

“No problem.” He adjusted his glasses again. “Have I ever told you that you have lovely blue eyes? No, of course I haven’t, because I never noticed before. I can see you have blue eyes, Becca. And they are lovely. It is a good day.”

“Yes, it is. Thank you for the compliment.” I smiled and hoped he could see it, too.

As I drove away from George’s, I peered at him and Hobbit in my rearview mirror. I was pleased that a prescription change seemed to help him see better. Had I known it was that simple, I would have offered to take him to the doctor months ago. I thought his vision issues were degenerative and not fixable at all. Seeing him and Hobbit discuss plans for their walk, a new idea started to sprout in my mind. George might do very well with a service dog of his own. I’d discuss it with Ian.

Ian,
my boyfriend
, I told myself.

By the time I arrived at the police station, I’d talked myself out
of being concerned about Sam and me dining together without a chaperone. We’d eaten together a number of times and we’d been fine.

Sam was a good friend. Whatever I’d been sensing might be just my imagination. We’d be fine. Grown-ups could handle these sorts of things, and we were both grownup.

He wasn’t at his desk when I arrived, so I took the extra time to visit with my parents. Dad wasn’t anywhere to be seen, but Aldous sat outside Mom’s cell with a notebook on his lap. A plate of cookies sat on a chair between him and Mom. She reached through the cage and grabbed one just as I walked in the room.

“Becca, hello!” she said cheerily. “Come have one of Allison’s jailbreak cookies. They’re delicious.”

“Hello, Becca,” Aldous said as he looked up from the notebook and put down his pen.

“Mom, Aldous,” I said as I pulled up a chair and reached for a cookie. Allison was good with cookies and these were her specialty. They were aptly named for whatever occasion they were used for—holiday, birthday, Easter, and now, conveniently, jailbreak. They were chocolaty and nutty and fruity and yummy.

“How are you, Mom?” I asked as I chewed, unconcerned about eating a cookie before dinner.

“Fine. Aldous and I are discussing things with the hope that I’ll remember more than I do.”

“Is it working?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Mom said with a glance at Aldous.

He smiled sympathetically and said, “We’ll get there, Polly. I’m certainly not ready to give up.”

“Where’s Dad?” I asked.

“He just left a few minutes ago to go to your place. He remembered the door he promised to fix.”

“Shoot, I wish I’d caught him. He doesn’t need to worry about it. Ian will take care of it in the next few days.”

“I’m glad he has something to do, dear, other than wait around with me. He’s very patient, but I’m sure he’s beginning to go a little stir-crazy.”

I was sure she was, too, but she couldn’t just pick up and leave. My gut hollowed, but I couldn’t allow myself to think she’d be behind bars much longer.

The door to the room opened and Sam peered in. He was dressed in jeans and a nice dark blue short-sleeved shirt. His hair was loose and slightly curly. I was grateful I’d be having dinner with the fun Sam instead of the work Sam.

“Am I interrupting?” he asked.

“Not at all. You look different, Sam. I might not have recognized you.” Mom sounded genuinely perplexed. “You’re really very handsome.”

Sam laughed. “Well, thank you, Polly.”

I smiled and felt my face burn a little. I chalked it up to being caught off guard by my mother’s boldness. Aldous peered at me with a sideways curious glance, but he didn’t say anything.

“Where’s Ian?” Sam asked.

“He can’t make it. You’re stuck with just me,” I said.

He didn’t miss a beat. “I’ll make due.” He winked at my mom and then turned back to me. “Just meet me out front when you’re ready. Even in civilian clothes, I bet Mr. Astaire would prefer me not to eavesdrop on your conversation.”

Once he left the room, Mom asked, “Is he dating anyone?”

“Mom, you’re in jail for murder and you want to play matchmaker?”

Mom shrugged and smiled. “I have faith in the system. I’ll be out of here soon.”

I looked at Aldous. His smile was confident, too. In fact, I realized he hadn’t smiled the first time I’d met him. Now he seemed much more relaxed.

“Good,” I said. “I can’t wait.”

“Where are you having dinner?” Mom asked.

“Manny’s Pizza,” I said. I looked at Aldous again. I hadn’t said one word to my mother’s attorney about the list or the note or anything else. If I had obtained anything that would help with her case, I had obtained it illegally, without a warrant or even the qualifications that one needed to obtain warrants.

He looked at me with his eyebrows together and then thumbed through his notebook.

“Manny Moretti?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“He was at the market the morning Ms. Ashworth was killed, am I correct?”

“Yes,” Mom and I both answered.

Aldous looked at me a long moment. He had questions, but he was also a smart man. He must have known I was doing whatever I could to help get my mother out of jail. He’d also know that I would tell him if I came upon anything that might help that cause even if I obtained it illegally.

The only thing I was sure of was that I wasn’t sure of anything. I met his gaze and saw that he understood what I was relaying.

“Well, give Mr. Moretti my best. I look forward to trying his restaurant,” Aldous said.

I squeezed my mom’s fingers through the cell bars and left to join Sam in front of the building.

Even better than casually dressed Sam was the fact that he’d brought his old convertible Mustang for the occasion.

The top of the red sports car was down, and though the temperature had to be somewhere in the nineties, it would be a refreshing to ride to the restaurant.

I hopped into the car and jumped into the questions before he pulled all the way out of the parking space.

“So, what do you have? Anything new on the case?”

Because we’d become such good friends, Sam frequently told me more behind-the-scenes stuff than he should tell a regular civilian. He wouldn’t tell me everything he knew, but he’d crossed some lines in the past. I hoped he’d continue to trust me.

“I’m afraid I don’t have much more than I had before . . .”

“I sense there’s a ‘but’ in that sentence.” I looked at him.

“I don’t want to spread false hope, but . . .” he said as he pulled the car onto Main Street.

“Tell me.”

“There’s something too neat about the murder, Becca,” he said.

“What do you mean?” With the car top down, the wind whipped at my hair from the side, and I had to continually push it behind my ear.

“Don’t get too excited. I’m not sure of anything. The prosecutor feels like she’s got a good case, but fingerprints on knives tend to make prosecutors drool no matter what. I’ve been doing this long enough to know there are other variables. I pushed Gus to analyze the prints and the knife better. In fact, I’m having it sent to a bigger crime lab in Charleston. So, other than the fact that your mother doesn’t strike me as a killer and there doesn’t seem to be any strong motive for her to kill Joan, I sense there’s something odd about the fingerprint pattern.”

“What do you mean?”

“No matter how I try to maneuver a knife when I’m holding it the way the prints show it must have been held, I can’t make it move right—move right to kill someone the way Joan was killed.”

I pictured Sam in his kitchen practicing gripping a knife and then plunging it forward. I appreciated the effort.

“Thank you, Sam.”

“Again, don’t get too excited. It’s not much, and I’m still looking at other things.”

“Like what?”

“I got everyone’s fingerprints—everyone from the restaurant association who was at the market that morning. It wasn’t easy. Not all of them wanted to cooperate, but I had Vivienne convince them; she’s good at that sort of thing.” He smiled. “I hoped to find something on that small piece of glass we discovered, but I didn’t find a thing—no prints at all. Nonetheless, I do have everyone’s fingerprints and I’m checking alibis and potential criminal records closely.”

“How’s that looking?”

“Not very hopeful. The murder occurred after the association group left the market. Some of the members went directly to their restaurants; those alibis were easy to check. But some took the entire day off just because of the visit to Bailey’s. It’s more difficult to track what they did.”

“Like who?” I asked.

“That I can’t tell you, but I’m looking at them all, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried.” I was—about my mom, but not because I thought Sam wasn’t doing his job thoroughly.

I sat back, gave up on trying to control my hair, and let the warm wind blow it every direction.

After a moment, I said, “I don’t think there’s anything to it, but there was a story some years ago about a potential poisoning . . .”

“John Ralston?”

“Yeah.”

“Already on it, but there doesn’t seem like there’s anything there. I do know about it, though.”

“Good. What do you think about the oregano Mom smelled?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know, Becca. I’m not discounting it completely, but the information wasn’t gathered in any sort of formal interrogation. I don’t think your mother was lying, but trauma and things like hypnosis can make the mind play tricks. Whatever happened at your farm, it was traumatic. And as for smells or scents, I’ve been to your farm many times and though I’ve never smelled oregano, there are plenty of smells around. Who knows what all that means at this point—but again, I’m not discounting it.”