Crops and Robbers (25 page)

The only other thing that could have made that moment worse would have been if I’d looked up and noticed that my father had witnessed the entire scene through the cell room window.

So it was that kiss—that great kiss—that made my night one of the worst ever.

I wasn’t happy with myself in the least. I searched for a reason, any reason, why I’d done what I’d done. I’d never been disloyal to either of my ex-husbands, even when they were being idiots. I cared deeply for Ian and would never, ever want to hurt him.

Why had I kissed Sam?

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

By the time I was standing in my kitchen the next morning,
having toast and coffee with Ian, I’d managed to convince myself that kissing Sam had been not only a mistake, but just one of those things that sometimes happened between friends—a reaction to stress, or something. I was grateful Sam was such a good friend and made sure that it stopped at just a kiss. It was the adrenaline of the day and the fact that I’d felt bad about hitting him with a tree limb, the sadness of seeing my mother still behind bars, another dead restaurant owner. It was the culmination of many things, but, still, it had been a mistake and nothing that needed to be destructive.

In the light of day and with my boyfriend in the kitchen with me, the kiss didn’t seem as real, or I tried not to make it real. Though, a ghost of guilt rumbled around just outside my field of vision and spooked me every few minutes or so.

I knew I needed to tell Ian what I’d done, but this wasn’t the time.

I’d driven straight home last night, thinking that Ian had already picked up Hobbit from George’s and they would already be there. But they arrived later, and Ian was too exhausted to do much but fall into bed and sleep. I hadn’t been able to find the deep sleep my body needed. I wasn’t sure when I’d ever sleep well again.

Ian was horrified to hear about Manny’s murder, but even he had the same thought about the possibility of Mom’s imminent release because of it. He was just as disappointed with the answer as Aldous and I had been.

“Anyway, what happened to make the installation such a challenge?” I asked, trying to bring some normal back, something that wasn’t about murder or guilty kisses.

“The customer, Frank Kovas, had given me the address and told me to put it at the southwest corner of his front yard. Just as I finished digging the hole, an elderly woman came out of the house carrying two glasses of lemonade. She asked me to sit down with her for a minute. I was tired and thirsty, so I took her up on it,” Ian said with a smile. “We sat and she started asking me my intentions. I thought it was an odd question, but I told her I intended to have the artwork installed before it got too late.”

“Seems reasonable,” I said.

“Yes, but then she informed me that she didn’t like yard artwork and would never have purchased any. I was confused, double-checked the address, and asked her name.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Come to find out, I was either given or wrote down the wrong address. She has a granddaughter, and she thought I was there to ask to ‘court’ her. She refused to believe that I was who I said I was, doing what I said I was doing.”

I laughed. “How did you convince her?”

“I helped her to my truck and showed her the sculpture that was in the back of it. I just kept trying to explain. I started filling in the hole.”

“That worked?”

“Yeah, but the she got angry and told me that if I didn’t make the dug-up area look like it hadn’t been dug, she would call the police. She picked up the lemonade and slammed the door as she went back into the house.”

“Oh my.”

“I felt terrible, but when I was done, I doubt she could tell where I’d dug the hole. I put all my efforts into putting it back together perfectly. Frank lives next door, and he showed up just as I was finishing. He wasn’t happy that I hadn’t finished his install yet, but fortunately he’s a good guy and understood when I explained.”

“Plus, I bet he loved it when it was done.”

“I think so.” Ian took a sip of coffee and leaned against the counter. “It was one of those comedy-of-errors things.”

“Sounds like it,” I said. I knew I sounded distracted. I cleared my throat. “Sorry. Too much on my mind.”

“No problem, Becca. Very understandable. How are you, really? How are your parents?”

“I’m fine.” I took my own sip of coffee to mask my guilty conscience. “My parents are getting tired of being in jail, but they’re okay.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Promise me a weekend away when this is done.”

“Consider it promised.” Ian’s dark eyes sparkled with the idea, but I could tell they also saw that something wasn’t right with me. He was pretty intuitive that way. I hoped he’d chalk it up to stress over my mother.

“Thank you. So, what’re you up to today?”

“Working on the farm. Thought I’d take Hobbit with me. You need me for anything?”

“I’m going to visit my parents again this morning and then see what happens from there. If you need to do anything away from the farm, can George watch Hobbit again?”

“I’m sure he’d love to. I’ll get her there.”

I stepped surely forward and rose to my toes. As we kissed, it seemed that the previous night’s kiss melted to something less important, something I could get a grip on and maybe move away from. I hoped.

“Wow, I’m thinking a long weekend’s a really good idea,” Ian said when I finally let him breathe.

I laughed. “Me, too.”

And then there it was again, that questioning glance. He knew something was up. My dark, exotic tattooed boyfriend, who was ten years younger than me in numbers but so much older and wiser spiritually than I’d ever be, knew something wasn’t right.

I hurried out of the house and to my truck, no doubt in an effort to better hide my guilt.

Aldous had said that the meeting was scheduled for nine o’clock. I pulled into a spot in front of the county municipal building at five after nine, and Betsy was just walking out of the building.

“Shoot,” I said quietly. Aldous had me pegged. He knew I’d somehow get involved in his meeting and had lied about the time. My respect for the attorney continued to grow.

I threw the truck into Park and watched as Betsy descended the front stairs. I debated whether or not I should get out of the truck.

Betsy’s face was pinched, and her legs moved quickly. Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, but even with her strained expression and severe hairdo, she was still an attractive young woman. The glasses she’d been wearing that first day I saw her were MIA again, and she wore a denim skirt with a pastel pink blouse.

She looked up as I was inspecting her, and stopped midway down the stairs. My orange truck was hard to miss, particularly this morning when the only other civilian car parked in the area was a silver Honda, which was probably hers.

She squinted and, because I couldn’t think of anything else to do, I waved. She held up a finger, telling me to wait.

“Okay,” I muttered to myself.

My window was already rolled down, so I leaned over the door slightly to greet her when she reached the truck. But instead of walking to the driver’s side, she went directly to the passenger side, opened the unlocked door, and hoisted herself into the seat.

She shot me an impatient look and said, “Drive.”

I blinked and then looked for the knife or some other potential weapon that usually accompanied such a command, but she seemed unarmed.

“Drive,” she said again.

I didn’t ask where, because I thought she’d just say “anywhere.” I suppose I could have said no, or screamed, or just remained parked there until she told me what she wanted to talk to me about, or killed me, but above everything else, I was curious.

I said, “’kay,” put the truck into gear, and headed back out onto the street. I turned and headed toward Bailey’s. I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.

Once the building with the police station was out of view, I said, “There’s something you want to talk to me about?”

“Yeah, just how stupid are you?”

“On a scale of one to ten? Depends on the day and the situation. Why?” She’d picked a bad day to ask such a question. Post Sam kiss, I felt pretty stupid.

“You didn’t give the list to your mother’s attorney or to the police. Why didn’t you give it to them?”

I was silent for a moment as I remembered the evening at Bistro. Ian and I had snuck that list out. I didn’t think anyone had seen us. I would have thought that if someone had, they would have been angry at us for snooping and stealing. Perhaps angry enough to call the police.

“I guess I’m not sure,” I finally said, wondering where this was going.

“You stole it—or you think you stole it—because you thought it might have something to do with Joan’s murder, right?”

“I didn’t know. I just knew you didn’t want us to have it, which made me want it more. Maybe it had to do with the murder, but I couldn’t be sure.”

“Why didn’t you just give it to the police? I left it there so that’s what you’d do.”

“You wanted us to take it?”

“Yes!”

“Okay. Why didn’t
you
just give it to the police?”

“I have my reasons. I thought you and your boyfriend would be smart enough to take care of it for me.”

“Betsy, help me out here. Your setup was good. I had no idea you wanted us to take it. We did, and felt good and sneaky for doing it, but Ian and I had no idea what any of it meant. Even if we had some inclination that it might have something to do with the case, it was so . . . so abstract. Why would we have given it to the police? And, really, why wouldn’t you if you thought it was pertinent?” As I said the words, I thought she had a pretty good point, though. If we had even a slight suspicion the list might have something to do with the case, why didn’t we just give it to Sam and let him try to figure it out? It was one of those things that suddenly seemed so clear in the bright, unforgiving light of hindsight. But in my own defense—there wasn’t much to try to figure out. I thought the main reason I hadn’t given it to Sam was because I felt we
had
stolen it. Stolen evidence, no matter how abstract, didn’t do much good for anyone. It wasn’t like I wasn’t working to figure it out; I just hadn’t gotten anywhere with it yet.

Betsy sighed heavily. “Well, I gave a copy to Mr. Astaire and Officer Brion this morning. I don’t know what it means, but I’m pretty sure it leads to the killer.”

“How?” I said.

“I don’t know, really, but I think it must.”

“How? Why?” I insisted.

“The day before Joan was killed, she asked me to run the printout for her. I did, and she and Nobel met in her office. They had a heated discussion with each other, and then I heard them on the phone, still with heated words, though it was difficult to make anything out. I went into her office after they left.” I felt her look at me. “I know I shouldn’t have snooped.”

“You’re saying that to me? Let’s just pretend it’s okay to be extra curious.”

“I hit Redial on the phone,” Betsy continued. “Of course I have no idea how many people she and Nobel might have been talking to, but the last one was Manny. He answered the phone again, and I told him it was me. He must have thought I was calling to continue whatever Joan and Nobel had started. He said something like, ‘Oh, now they sic you on me. You can just tell them that they’re not getting one dime more from me until things get straightened out.’ And then he hung up. Just then Joan and Nobel came back into the office. I don’t think they saw me on the phone, but they caught me holding the list they’d scribbled on.”

“How’d that go?”

“Not well. Joan had Nobel leave, and then she closed the door and told me that I was never, ever, ever to show anyone the list. That her life and Nobel’s life could potentially be in jeopardy if I did.”

I swallowed hard. That was pretty big news. I wanted to tell her that if I’d known what she’d known, I would have taken the list to the police immediately, but it didn’t take much of a leap to think that the delay in delivering it to the police might be a big part of the reason Manny was murdered. I felt horrible enough; she might throw herself out of the moving truck if I pointed that out.

“She didn’t explain it to you?” I said.

“No, not at all. She dismissed me and told me to go home for the rest of the day. I didn’t sleep all night. I was a wreck, and then when Joan was killed, I was a bigger wreck and . . . now, especially in light of Manny’s murder, I know I should have acted more appropriately.”

She’d come to the same conclusion I just had. I thought I’d heard a choke to her voice. I glanced over. She was trying not to cry.

“Oh, hey, you did
something
. You couldn’t have predicted Joan’s or Manny’s murder.” My words sounded pretty hollow.