Grilling the Subject (8 page)

He withdrew his cell phone from his pocket and muttered, “Well, I'll be. I never heard it ring.”

“That's because it's set on vibrate.” I snatched it and switched the sound button to On. I stuffed it back in his hand.

“I didn't feel it vibrate, either.” He arched an eyebrow. “I repeat, ‘What's up?'”

“You. Cinnamon. Sylvia.” My voice spiraled upward. “I've been worried sick, and—”

My father put a finger to my lips. “Shh.”

“I spoke to Lola. She hasn't found the receipt for Goodwill.”

“She won't need to.”

“Why not? Because a witness who saw you at the lake came forward?”

“No.”

“Then you need that receipt!”

“Let's walk.” He bid good-bye to the fisherman and, while escorting me along the pier, opened his to-go bag from the diner. “Want a French fry?”

“No. Look, Dad—”

“Jenna, relax.”

“How can I?” I wriggled out of his grasp. “What time did you leave this morning?”

“Like I said, well before dawn, which was—”

“Five forty-seven. Got it.” I licked my lips. “It's an indelicate question, but can Lola corroborate that?”

“No. We don't cohabitate, but we will soon.”

“What?” I squeaked. “You're moving in together?”

“We're talking about getting married.”

“What? You can't.”

“Of course we can. We're both adults. We don't need your—”

“No, I mean, you can't get married before Bailey says ‘I do.' Please. Don't steal her thunder. She's so . . .” I twirled a hand. “It's taken her a long time to say yes to a man.”

Dad slipped a hand around my elbow and squeezed. “I love how you watch out for your friends.”

“I'm not kidding. Don't mess this up for her.”

“Lola said the same thing. We're all on the same page.”

I breathed easier. “Okay, back to you. You went fishing early. Then what?”

“I got your call, so I came back to meet with Cinnamon.”

Out of nowhere, I felt a presence. Moving along with us. At our pace. I searched for Rhett, thinking maybe he had seen me pass his shop and came to find me, but I didn't see him. Farther ahead, a man in a baseball cap peeked over his shoulder. The visor cast a shadow, obscuring his face. Was he looking at me? He whipped his head to the front and picked up his pace. To avoid me? No, of course not. How ridiculous. Being upset about my father was making me suffer paranoid delusions, yet again.

I refocused on my father. “Did you catch anything this morning?”

“Sure, but I threw it back in, as I usually do.” He halted and swung me to face him. “Jenna, I did not kill Sylvia Gump.”

“I know that, but why would Ronald lie about seeing you there?”

“Maybe he saw someone who looked similar to me. A man or even a woman my size. Maybe he didn't see anyone and the rumors are true.”

“What rumors?”

“He's losing it. He's addled. There's been talk. Supposedly, he's retiring. No one is going out on a limb and calling it early-onset Alzheimer's, but let's say he's not completely attentive to detail.”

“Ronald said he saw a man in a red plaid coat.”

My father's eyes grew steely. “Whose side are you taking?”

“I'm not taking sides.”

“Sure sounds like you are.” My father marched ahead.

“Dad!” I chased after him and grabbed him by the shoulder. “Who else could have killed her?”

“I hate to think negatively about anyone, and I hate to speculate.”

“Speculate! Please!”

“Jenna, I can defend myself. Stay out of it.” He quickened his pace and made a beeline into Bait and Switch Fishing and Sport Supply Store.

B
ailey nabbed my
arm at the threshold of the sporting goods store. “Hey!”

“Let go. I've got to catch up with my father. He—” I paused. A cord of rope hung over her shoulder; she carried a pair of spurs in her left hand. “Did you buy those?”

“Yep! They're nickel silver spurs with seven-pointed rowels that will jangle until the cows come home.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Boy, are you easy.”

“I'm hooked. Wait till you see me go. It's like jumping rope. Remember how we used to love to jump rope? I even remember your favorite song: ‘Not Last Night but the Night Before.' Remember the lyrics? ‘Twenty-four robbers came knocking at my door.' Ooh, I loved that one! Especially the speed counting. ‘One, two, three'—” She stopped abruptly. “Hey, what's going on? You look like you're about to blow a fuse.”

I hitched my head toward my father, who was retreating to the section with fishing rods. “He's trying to ditch me.”

“Why?”

“We exchanged words. He wants me to butt out, except I won't. I'll win him over. I'm sure of it. Go back to the shop. I'll fill you in when I return.”

“Ahem.” She pinched my arm. “Did you forget I'm your ride?”

“I'll get a lift or I'll hoof it. Don't worry.”

I plowed after my father, intent on finishing our discussion. I found him chatting with Rhett by a wide selection of rods. Dad owned quite a collection.

Rhett, who was also a dedicated fisherman, handed my father an aqua-and-black rod. “This is the newest Scott fly rod, a Tidal.”

“Dad!”

He spun toward me, his eyes steely. “You followed me?”

“Yep.” I grinned broadly. “I'm hot on your trail.”

My father blew a stream of frustrated air through his nose. “This discussion is over.”

“Not by a long shot.” I moseyed up to Rhett and kissed him on the cheek. “I said we'd meet up. I didn't expect it to be under these circumstances. Sorry, but I can't hang out for long.”

“I'll take every minute I can get.” Rhett ran his fingers down my arm and took hold of my hand.

I shivered with delight. The man was definitely going to win my heart and soul at this rate. But not right now. I squeezed his hand, then released it and refocused on my father. “Dad, we need to discuss your defense.”

My father's mouth quirked up on one side. “Oho! Now you're an attorney? When did you pass the bar?”

“C'mon. I just want to make sure that—”

“Cary!” a man bellowed loudly enough to rouse Rip Van Winkle.

We all turned. Shane Maverick, wearing jeans and a short-sleeved shirt with the Wild West Extravaganza logo on it, was standing in the shoe area examining a hiking boot.

“I thought I heard your voice,” he said.

“Shane!” my father shouted, as if calling to a long-lost friend. “Join us.” He beckoned him, obviously hoping that if he added another person to our group I would end my interrogation. I wouldn't.

“Dad.”

“Not now, Jenna.”

Shane sauntered to us, a sample boot in hand. As he walked, the muscles in his arms flexed. I heard a couple of female customers audibly swoon; yes, he was that good looking. Shane came to a stop and acknowledged me with a quick appraisal. “Jenna, you look beautiful, as always.”

“Get out of here,” I joked. Beautiful? I'd dashed down the boardwalk. My hair had to be a wreck, and my cheeks were probably flushed—not my best look.

“You do. Fresh and sun-kissed.” Shane made eye contact with Rhett. “How're you doing?”

“I'm well, thanks,” Rhett said, his tone measured.

“Say, Cary.” Shane met my father's gaze. “I heard what happened to Sylvia. What a shame. Someone told me the police are looking into you as a suspect. Supposedly Ronald Gump saw you. Tell me it's not so.”

“Ronald thinks he saw me, but he didn't. I'm innocent. I was fishing, but that doesn't seem to matter.” He leveled me with a gaze.

I mouthed,
I do believe you.

He heaved a sigh, and for the first time, I noticed his shoulders were sagging and his voice sounded hoarse. How I wished I could cart him back to my place and fix him a comfort-food meal, using one of my mother's recipes. I had perfected a few of his favorites, including her turkey meat loaf.

“My condolences, man,” Shane said.

“Thanks.”

“How do you two know each other?” Rhett asked, looking between Shane and my father.

“I've bought a home in the neighborhood,” Shane said.

“He hasn't closed escrow on the house yet,” my father added.

“We're days away,” Shane said. “None too soon for Emily. She's about ready to pop.”

“When are you two getting married?” Rhett asked.

Shane stiffened. “That's a sort of private question, don't you think?”

“I don't know, is it? You're engaged. Most people who are engaged set a date.” There was a bite to Rhett's tone.

Shane grinned, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. “Don't worry, dude. I'll make an honest woman of her. By the way, I want a pair of these boots. Size twelve.” He shoved the boots in Rhett's direction.

Rhett didn't accept them. Instead, he called over a sporty saleswoman and asked her to find the boots for Shane. She hurried off. Something curious passed across Shane's face, like he was miffed Rhett hadn't done his bidding. Then Shane swiveled, turning his back on Rhett, and Rhett flinched. He rotated his head to loosen the tension in his neck.

“Are you okay?” I whispered.

“Yep.” He wasn't; he was lying.

Men.

“Cary, listen, heads up,” Shane said. “Bad news on the horizon. I was hanging around outside the Gumps' house—you know, my house is on the other side—and I was trying to get a feel for what was going on. That's when I saw Mrs. McCartney. She said she spied you in the vicinity around six this morning. Isn't that about the time Sylvia was murdered?”

“I wasn't anywhere near there. That old sourpuss.” My father ground his teeth together. “She's had it in for me for years. Her husband wanted to buy Nuts and Bolts. I offered a better price.”

The way my aunt told the story, Mrs. McCartney wasn't always mean-spirited. She fell to pieces when her husband passed on, which happened a week after he lost the hardware
store deal. Needless to say, Mrs. McCartney believed that my father, by buying the shop, took away her husband's will to live.

Shane folded his arms across his chest. His muscles pressed at the seams of his T-shirt. “Wasn't she the holdout in the neighborhood, Cary?”

“Holdout?” I asked.

“She didn't want to go along with Ava's plan,” my father said.

“What plan?”

Shane guffawed. “Jenna, didn't you hear about the powwow?”

“Are you talking about the meeting Ava orchestrated?”

“Bingo!” Shane aimed a finger at me. “Boy, was it rousing.”

I squinted at my father, hoping he would explain.

“Like I told you last night at the engagement party, sweetheart,” Dad said, “Ava asked us to erect fences to delineate the properties. She arrived with plat maps of the various properties, once again proving Sylvia owned only a small swatch of the plateau. Lots of people said something had to be done. Mrs. McCartney was one of them, but when she saw me, she did a U-turn. She wouldn't take part, claiming it was too costly, and what did she care about an old useless piece of land—useless to everyone except Sylvia, of course.” My father's nostrils flared.

Shane whirled a hand as he continued the story. “Ava planned to give a reporter the story. She wanted it plastered across the front page:
Sylvia Gump is a horse thief.
” Shane swiped the air to paint the headline. “By the way, Ava made sure we all knew that years ago, horse theft was extremely common, before cars came on the scene. Punishments were often severe, with several cultures—I'm not sure about ours—pronouncing the sentence of death upon thieves.”

“We all voted no to that idea,” my father said. “No calling her a horse thief.”

“Yeah, but we said yes to a
story
,” Shane said. “We would
declare Sylvia a nuisance and a bully. I can just imagine how she would've reacted to something like that in the paper.” He slapped his thigh. “That Ava, she's a real go-getter. By the end, she had us all swearing we would do whatever it took to get Sylvia to back down and stop encroaching on our land.”

“
Whatever it took?
” I screeched. “Dad?”

My father flapped his hand. “Don't worry. We all knew what that meant. Whatever it took through proper channels, not murder.”

“Even so, that kind of testimony could be damaging.”

Shane said, “For all of us, if you think about it. Ava especially. Say, what's her alibi? Do any of you happen to know? She loves the neighborhood. She might—”

“She's devoted to Crystal Cove,” my father said, cutting him off.

“Yeah.” Shane snorted. “She's so dedicated that I wouldn't put it past her to get rid of Sylvia so property values wouldn't plummet.”

We all grew quiet.

Dad broke the silence. “Ava's a good person.”

“And a good Realtor,” Shane added. “She helped me get my house for a song.”

Dad brandished a finger. “That's because your seller had to move quickly in order to take care of his mother in Florida. He was willing to take the first offer that came his way.”

I said, “I heard Sylvia hoped to buy your house, Shane, but Ava thwarted her.”

“Who knows what the real story is?” Shane said. “For all I know, Ava rushed us into the deal because there's a body buried beneath the—” He balked. “Sorry. That was insensitive of me, considering the circumstances.”

Dad addressed Rhett. “What do you think?” My father adored my boyfriend. They were buddies. They talked reels and rods and lures and life. They often went fishing together. If only they had teamed up this morning.

I glanced at Rhett; he shrugged, signifying he had no opinion about real estate disputes. He lived in a small cabin in the woods. Private and serene. No neighbors.

“Sylvia,” my father muttered. “She had no taste, but she didn't deserve to die.”

“No taste?” Shane carped. “That's putting it mildly. Her place is a patchwork quilt. A real eyesore.”

“Except for the garden,” I noted, “which is pristine.”

“That's Ronald's doing,” my father said. “He has a green thumb. He tweaks it at night when he gets home from work and nonstop on the weekends. Have you seen his roses? They're not that easy to grow in our climate, but he makes it happen.”

“Ronald,” Shane grunted. “He's fairly worthless otherwise.”

“Don't say that,” I said, surprised to find myself defending the man who had accused my father of murder. “He's beloved at the junior college.”

“Perhaps he is,” Shane agreed, “but he wasn't beloved by Sylvia. I overheard them, after the powwow. They were arguing on their patio.”

“Where were you?” my father asked.

“Checking out my new digs.” Shane's future house was directly east of the Gumps' house on Azalea Place. “It was a gorgeous night. The place is unoccupied. The view is spectacular. I stole onto the porch. Anyway, there they were, the two of them, going at it. Ronald was telling Sylvia she was wrong. He said, ‘Love makes the world go round.' She screamed that he didn't know what he was talking about and told him to shut up. Then he ordered her to put down the canister.”

“What canister?” I asked.

“I don't know. Ronald said, ‘Do you want to blow up the entire neighborhood?' so I imagine he was talking about a propane canister, but I couldn't see them. They've put up a six-foot-tall fence on either side of the patio.” He was referring
to the same hideous fence that I'd noticed when charging to the plateau. “Ava told me they built the fences to block the wind, but I'd bet it's so neighbors can't get a gander.” Shane frowned. “Talk about a blot on the landscape.”

“You can plant bushes to camouflage it,” my father suggested.

“That's exactly what I intend to do.” Shane linked his hands behind his back and stretched his pectoral muscles. “Say, do you think Sylvia could have set the blaze herself using that gas?”

I was pleased that I wasn't the only person who had come up with that theory, but I shook my head. “She couldn't have. She was already dead.”

“How do you know that?” Rhett asked.

“Cinnamon told me.”

“How did she die?” Dad said.

“Cinnamon wouldn't reveal that.” I glanced at Shane. “Do you have any idea?”

“Nope. There's been a lot of speculation from those in my employ. A gun, a knife. Maybe she and Ronald came to blows. Sylvia can pack a mean wallop. Ronald could have countered with one of his own. Bam! Right to the kisser.”