Falling to Pieces (27 page)

“Doesn’t matter?”

“Right. Forget for a minute how Stakehorn died. What’s important is that the murderer wanted you to take the fall. We can assume he was happy about that.”

“No doubt.”

“But just three days later—someone broke into the newspaper.” Deborah stood now, walked to the edge of the porch. “Which everyone thought was a burglar or kids who heard the place was empty.” “What if it was the same person, looking for something?”

Callie rubbed her finger over her bottom lip. Finally she said, “I tried that angle. I tried it when my bag was missing.”

“Stay with me a minute.”

“All right. Go on.”

“When the paper reopened, Trent McCallister noticed a few strange things.” Deborah sat back down in the rocker. “He told us at the vet that several times things have been in the wrong place, the paper hasn’t been locked up—at first, things that he attributed to Mrs. Caldwell being old and past retirement age.” Callie began tapping her finger against the arm of the rocker.

“But after Max was shot, he changed his tune. What if all of this is caused by the same person?”

A bird called out, then took flight across the field in front of them.

“Margie’s shop, your shop, even Max being shot … it’s all the same person, looking for the same thing.” Deborah sat back, picked up the lemonade, and rubbed at the condensation running down the sides of the glass.

“You thought of all this while looking under my car?”

“It’s just like pieces of a quilt, Callie. It took time for them to come together into a pattern. What I saw under the car was that we need to lure the person out, just like we enticed the kitten. We need to finally give this guy what he’s been looking for.”

“But we don’t know what he’s looking for.”

“He doesn’t have to know that.”

Callie continued to worry her bottom lip, studied Jonas and the twins as they made their way in from the field, then said what Deborah had known all along she’d say. “I’m in.”

C
ALLIE DROVE STRAIGHT
to the
Gazette.
Trent answered her knock on the front door of the newspaper, though it was nearing eight in the evening.

“Hello, Callie. Rather late to be placing an ad.”

He had a bit of newsprint smeared on his right cheek. Callie struggled with whether to tell him or ignore it. In the end, she stood on her tiptoes and smudged it off with her thumb.

“Oh, uh. Thanks. I’ve been working on tomorrow’s edition and the press broke down again.”

“Did you get it working?”

“Yeah. Surprisingly I did, and I only hurt one foot kicking it in the process.”

They stood there in the fading sunlight, and suddenly Callie felt a bit awkward. She wondered if her skirt was soiled from kneeling in the dirt with the children, then she wondered why she cared. Her palms started to sweat and she wanted to wipe them on her blouse, but she felt self-conscious doing it.

Why was she so nervous?

Did she actually think he would refuse them?

Their plan couldn’t work without his cooperation, without the
Gazette.
It had all begun with the newspaper, and now it could all end with it. But she’d need his help.

“How’s Max?” Trent asked.

“He’s going to be all right. He should be home tomorrow.” Unless Trent agreed to their plan, then she’d ask Doc England to keep him an extra night.

“That’s good news. I ran his picture on page one—the one I took the night Margie was attacked.”

When Callie only shook her head, he ducked back into the office, came out with a copy of page one. Max had a nice four by five photo in the top left column. He was wearing his blue bandana with silver stars.

“He looks like a real hero,” Trent said.

“Yeah, he does.” Callie stared down at the picture, determined she wouldn’t let her tears fall. “I still owe you for that shirt—the one you put over his wound, but um … actually I was here to ask another favor.”

Trent looked at her quizzically, pushed his glasses up, then stuffed his hands in his pockets. “So you weren’t here to place an ad.”

“No, I, uh, needed to talk to you about something.”

“I was headed out to grab a bite to eat. Are you hungry?”

“Actually I ate with Deb and her family.”

“Oh.” He nodded as if he had expected her to say no.

“I’d love to join you though, if you don’t mind.”

The smile that covered his face was slow, genuine, and left her a bit confused. Trent McCallister was all about the story. She could easily imagine him as an editor in Fort Wayne or even Indianapolis. The man had drive. In many ways he reminded Callie of who she had been in Houston. Then there was the personal side of him. When he turned on the charm, she couldn’t help melting a bit.

“Want to take my truck or the bike?”

“Let’s go with the truck.”

“All right, but you’re living dangerously if you’re betting the
truck will make it there and back. I can grab a to-go sandwich at the deli; then we can sit outside and talk.”

“Sure. Sounds perfect.”

When they arrived at the deli, she declined to go inside with him, opting to wait outside. She needed the night air, needed to hear the sounds of the evening birds and feel the breeze.

It seemed like karma that she was back where the incident had started.

Or had it started here?

What had happened before she’d become upset with Stakehorn?

That was what they really needed to know.

Callie leaned against the side of the truck, studying Trent as he walked back out of the deli—short-sleeved button-up shirt pulled out of his khakis, sand-colored hair badly in need of a cut and extending far past his collar. He looked like such a bad boy, someone who should be climbing on his Harley and riding out of town at sunset, not grabbing a bite to eat then heading back to work on tomorrow’s paper.

Depending on Trent McCallister might be one of the most reckless things she’d ever done, but then she remembered the way he’d knelt beside Max with his shirt pulled off. The way he had hurried back to the paper for his truck while she’d called ahead to the clinic. How he’d carried her dog to his truck. The hours he’d spent sitting with her in the vet’s waiting room.

He smiled his crooked smile, lowered the tailgate on the truck, and perched on the edge. Callie walked slowly around to the back, her skirt brushing against her legs, her legs brushing against the warm metal of the truck.

Callie had been careful to maintain her independence after Rick’s death. Trusting Deborah had been a giant leap of faith. Now she needed to trust Trent. More than that she wanted to trust him. She wanted to give him a chance to prove that he was the good guy here.

He gave her a hand up, and she joined him on the tailgate, with her legs swinging. She felt like a child again, and all things were possible. From where they sat, they were able to watch the last of the travelers down Main Street. Since it was a Friday, there weren’t many people.

Again, she wondered if that had figured into what had happened. Was it one of Deborah’s quilt pieces? Part of the pattern she always spoke of, part of the answer that would lead them to understanding the identity of Stakehorn’s murderer? And it had been a murder, no one doubted that anymore, although Shane hadn’t put up any WANTED posters. The way he’d conducted his investigation made it plain enough.

“Deborah and I think the person who killed Stakehorn is still in Shipshewana. We think he or she has been trying to find something.”

Trent finished chewing the large bite he had taken of the sandwich.

“How do you figure?”

“One murder, an attack on Margie, break-ins at the paper, The
Kaffi
Shop, my shop, Max shot …”

“Slow down.” A frown formed between Trent’s eyes, and she knew he was putting this together like a reporter, which was good. They needed some objective thinking applied to the situation.

The more they talked, the more accurate Deborah’s theory felt.

“If we’re right, this person is going to keep coming back to the same places until he finds what he’s looking for. You’re going to keep finding things misplaced, doors unlocked—”

Holding his hand up to stop her, Trent took a drink of the soda he’d bought with the sandwich. “You think the person who killed Stakehorn, and did all that other stuff, is still nosing around in my newspaper office?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“We don’t know why. Maybe we don’t need to know why. We want to know who. I met with Adalyn yesterday, and according to her I’m still on Black’s short list regarding the murder. I give you my word I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill Stakehorn, and I didn’t break into the paper. I sure didn’t shoot my own dog. So who did? We want to know. We want to stop what’s happening in Shipshewana.”

“And you’re telling me because—”

“We need your help.”

“Whoa there, hoss. I report the news. I don’t star in it.”

“Tell me it’s not in your best interest to find out.”

“I’m not sure it matters to me, if they’re not taking anything.”

“Of course it does. They’ve killed once, and they won’t hesitate to kill again.” Callie crossed her arms, feeling frustrated at his immediate resistance. “Think about what a headline it would make on the front of your paper when we catch this person.”

“If I were to agree, what kind of help are you talking about?” The frown was quite pronounced now. “And I’m not saying I would because my MO is to stay uninvolved.”

Callie pulled in a deep breath. She’d been a good salesperson when she was a pharmaceutical rep, partly because she knew her product, but also because she was able to gauge what a client needed.

Looking at Trent, she put herself in his shoes. He didn’t need the murderer’s identity, not like she did.

But there was one thing he did need.

“We need you to run a story.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And if it works, we’ll catch our man.”

“Or woman.”

“Just say you’ll help.” Callie waited while Trent considered what she’d said.

“What if it doesn’t work?” Trent balled up all the trash, placed
it in the bag, and sat back against the side panel of the truck—studying her, assessing her, looking for the weakness in her plan.

“It will. All you have to do is run the story. Say that according to undisclosed sources you’ve learned Stakehorn had amassed a large sum of money—money that is now missing from his safe.”

Trent began shaking his head, but Callie pushed on.

“The police have not formally charged anyone yet, but it’s possible charges will be filed in twenty-four to forty-eight hours—against the same person they have considered their prime suspect for murder.”

“Which everyone knows is you.” Trent crossed his arms, cocked his head, and looked at her as if she were insane or two-years-old, or possibly both.

“Exactly. An indictment for murder and burglary is expected to be handed down at the same time. Think what a scoop that will be for your paper.”

“Except it’s completely bogus.”

“I’m not done yet.” Callie leaned forward and lowered her voice as Mr. Simms walked out of the deli and began changing the sign on the front marquee. “On the second page, you run a story that states Daisy’s Quilt Shop has been temporarily closed and that I am unavailable for comment.”

“You are?”

“Yes.”

“And why are you not available?”

“As a good reporter, it’s your job to find out.”

“Of course it is.” Trent now looked as if he was actually enjoying this. He offered her a drink of the soda, which she waved away.

“So you contact the store.”

“But there’s no answer.”

“Then you contact the Chamber of Commerce.”

“But they haven’t heard from you.”

“Finally you call—”

They both stopped talking as Mr. Simms walked by. “Night, Mr. McCallister, Miss Callie.”

“Mr. Simms.” They said his name simultaneously.

He turned, looked at them as if he expected they might say something more. “Did you need anything?”

“No, sir. That is, not at this moment.” Callie smiled mischievously.

“You go ahead and knock if you do. We’re closed now, but for you, Miss Callie, I will open up again.” He shuffled off into the store, waving a hand spotted with age as he did.

“Where was I?” she asked.

“I had just called Mr. Simms to find out why you’re unavailable for comment, and why Daisy’s Quilt Shop is closed.”

“He saw me get in the back of Shane Black’s car.”

“Tell me it’s not true.” Trent’s hazel eyes practically danced in the darkening night. “Why, pray tell, would the good officer arrest you yet again?”

“Simms doesn’t know, but he did overhear something.”

“Of course he did.”

“He overheard me ask to make a last minute stop by my place.”

“You practically begged.” “I did.”

“Request denied though.”

“How did you know?”

“Simms told me.”

Callie sat back, satisfied at last.

“That’s the craziest story I’ve ever heard, Callie. Maybe you should give up being a shop owner and become a writer.”

“Danki.”

“Huh?”

“That’s Amish. It means thank you.”

“Okay. Thanks for the lesson in Dutch. Now suppose I bought
into this, which I haven’t. What’s the point? Why are you planting these two stories?”

Callie grinned at him, more sure than ever that he would agree and that their plan would work. “Because Deborah and I are going to be hiding upstairs, waiting for the murderer—who has to be Stakehorn’s son. He’s the only person on Deborah’s list who makes sense.”

Callie was certain the real killer would never know he was being set up.

It took her another twenty minutes to convince Trent. Finally he shrugged, pushed his hair out of his eyes, and aimed for nonchalant. “I have a hard time believing Stakehorn did this.”

“Greed is the most frequent motive for murder. Haven’t you read any Agatha Christie?”

“No, but I’ve read a lot of newsprint. Greed, I accept. Killing your own father …”

“They were estranged.”

“Takes an abnormally cold person, and someone who might be dangerous. Why don’t you go and talk to Black?”

“We don’t have any proof. That’s what we need! Do you really think Roger Stakehorn is dangerous? He’s more like the bumbling crook in some comedy flick.”

“If what you say is true, he’s dangerous enough to have killed.”

“With poison, probably from long distance.” Callie combed her fingers through the back of her hair as they walked toward the deli. “I don’t even think he was in town. I think he mailed the poison to his father. Hid it in some coffee creamer and waited for it to do its work. He’s a coward, Trent, and I for one am not afraid of him. All we need is for you to run the stories.”

“I’m not completely convinced. Remember I’m only on temporary assignment here. If this crazy idea of yours works, maybe I’ll secure my job here. If it doesn’t, I’ll claim I had a terrible source I’ll never use again.”

“Me?” Callie gave him her best smile, thought he might kiss her by the way he smiled that half smile and shook his head slightly.

“You,” he said, leaning forward, then past her to open the door to the closed deli.

Mr. Simms was easier to convince. They didn’t need to tell him all of the details, only that they had a plan to end what was going on in Shipshewana, catch the guilty party, and disperse the cloud of suspicion hanging over Callie.

He reached an age-spotted hand across the table and patted hers. “I’ve liked you since you walked into my deli and threw tea on Stakehorn.”

“Mr. Simms, I’m not exactly proud of that moment.”

“Proud or not, he had been less than kind to many of my customers. You were not afraid to stand up to him. Though you are small, you are incredibly brave.”

“Or incredibly stupid,” Trent muttered, then grabbed his ankle when Callie kicked him under the table.

“Do you understand what you’re to say if anyone comes by and speaks with you, Mr. Simms?” Callie’s biggest fear was that another innocent person would be hurt before the murderer was brought to justice.

“Sure, sure. I tell them I saw you put into Black’s car. This is true. I was walking down the street the day he arrested you. It was a terrible thing.”