I Think I Love You (27 page)

"And what was his response?"

"He said he wouldn't let her cut him out."

Mica glared.

Regina's heart shattered to see the accusation in their expressions.

"Justine, when your father got there, did he and Dean exchange words?"

Justine hesitated. "Yes. Daddy accused Dean of splitting up the family, and Dean called him a drunk."

"Did your father threaten Dean?"

Another hesitation.

"Did your father tell Dean that"—he looked back to the paper—"he'd be sorry if he didn't stay away?"

"Yes."

"Then Dean left?"

"Right."

"But he came back?"

She sighed. "Right."

"What time?"

"Around ten."

"He climbed the trellis to the roof and came in through your bedroom window."

"Yes."

"Did you have intercourse with him?"

"No."

"Were you taking drugs?"

"No."

"The officers found some tablets on the floor of your bedroom—what were they?"

"I don't know—Dean wanted me to take them, but I refused."

"What did he tell you they were?"

She pushed her cheek out with her tongue. "Muscle relaxers."

"Was Dean into drugs?"

"Ask Mica—she's the one with a purse full of pill bottles."

Mica gaped. "What about the tins of nutmeg in your dresser drawer?"

Justine gave her a lethal look. "Shut up or I'll tell everyone how broke you are and how desperate you might have been to get rid of Dean."

Regina stood and leaned her hands on the table. "Stop it, both of you. Act your age until we can get through this."

The sheriff studied them all as he polished off his Dr Pepper. "Mica, was Dean into drugs?"

"Uppers, occasionally, and a little pot. It's everywhere out there."

"And
your
pills?"

"Prescriptions. Painkillers for my neck and back and antibiotics for... an infection."

"VD," Justine clarified sweetly. "And don't forget about the antidepressants."

"At least I don't self-medicate, Miss Spice Rack."

Regina gritted her teeth—airing their differences privately was simply too boring for her sisters. "What are you talking about, Mica?"

"Justine takes nutmeg to get high."

Regina frowned. "Is that possible?"

"Old hippie trick," Mitchell said. "Cheap, legal, and it doesn't show up in corporate random drug testing."

"You make me sound like a freaking addict," Justine said to Mica. "And what I do to relax recreationally has nothing to do with any of this."

"I'll be the judge of that," the sheriff said. "You were saying, Justine, that you refused the pills that Dean offered you."

Justine exhaled. "And then Mica came in."

"And told you that Haviland had VD?"

"Yes."

"Then you withdrew a thirty-eight revolver from under the mattress and shot at him. That's attempted murder."

Justine scoffed. "I wasn't going to kill him—just scare him. That's why I shot into the ceiling."

He flipped to another report and skimmed it with his finger. "According to Mica, you told Dean, 'I could kill you,' then produced the gun. She said you were aiming for Dean when she tried to wrestle the gun away from you."

Justine glared at Mica. "She grabbed for the gun, but like I said, I wasn't trying to kill him."

"What happened to the gun afterward?"

"I took it," Mitchell said. "It was unloaded. I left it on the downstairs hall table."

"And were you still at the house
appraising,
Mr. Cooke?"

"No. After Haviland left, I talked to the family about the ramifications of testifying at the Bracken hearing."

The sheriff grunted. "Oh, that's right—you're a non-practicing attorney and your brother represents that scumbag Bracken, who's accusing my department of a goddamn conspiracy. It's a small effing world, ain't it?"

Mitchell frowned. "As I was saying, I talked to the Metcalfs over dinner—"

"All of them?"

"No. Justine went upstairs around four-thirty, and I didn't see her again until the shot sounded."

"You didn't realize that Haviland was in the house?"

"No."

"Did anyone?"

Regina shook her head and looked at Mica.

"Not until I heard his voice through the door of the bathroom that separates my room from Justine's."

"So Mr. Cooke left the gun on the hall table and no one has seen it since?"

Everyone shook their heads.

"Where did you get the gun, Justine?"

"At a pawnshop in Shively. Last week."

"Why?"

"For protection. I had reason to believe I was in danger."

"Oh, yeah, the scorned wife. I took the call from Officer Lando in Shively when he was concerned the Crane woman might be on her way here.
Whew-wee
, you Metcalf girls are single-handedly causing overtime for my department." He gave them all a flat smile. "And we haven't even gotten to the Bracken situation yet."

Regina closed her eyes.

"But first things first. Justine, aside from your gun being missing, there were two shells missing from the box of ammo we found in your bedroom. We dug one out of the plaster in the ceiling—which, by the way, we'll compare to the one we dug out of Haviland's chest—and Mr. Cooke just said the gun was unloaded when he left it on the table." He steepled his fingers. "So where's the other bullet?"

Justine reddened. "I accidentally shot into the trunk of my car, into a bag of rock salt."

He scribbled something on the form. "So that's where we'll find it."

"No. The trunk was a mess, so I stopped on the drive down to clean it out and throw away the bag."

"Any witnesses?"

"No."

"Figures." He scribbled something else. "Dean stood you up at the altar a few years ago, didn't he, Justine?"

She nodded.

"And tell me again about this wardrobe where the body was found."

She sat back in her chair. "It was a wardrobe that my sisters and I re-finished as a wedding gift for me and Dean."

"And you—let's see here—'hacked it up with an ax' on your wedding day."

"Those aren't my words."

"No, they're my boy Pete's—he was at the wedding."

Justine shrugged. "I was angry with Mica and Dean at the time, and I didn't exactly need a wedding gift, now did I?"

He scratched his temple. "Quite a coincidence that the body was found in the same wardrobe, eh?"

Justine fidgeted. "I don't know anything about that."

He studied her dubiously. "Well, I'm going to need for all you girls to take a polygraph exam. And a ballistics test for gunpowder residue."

Regina shuddered.

The sheriff turned his attention to Mitchell. "So you're working for John and Cissy?"

"Yes. Doing appraisals of the business inventory and some pieces in their home to be auctioned."

Sheriff Shadowen made a rueful noise. "Cissy said they were going through some rough financial times. And that she and John were splitting up. That kind of news could make a man depressed, maybe even a little crazy."

Regina blinked back tears—no matter how bad the evidence looked, she still couldn't picture her father pulling the trigger.

"Had you girls noticed anything strange about John's behavior since you arrived?"

Since she was the only one who'd seen him enough lately to know the difference, she answered. "He was quiet, but he's always been quiet. He's been drinking quite a bit."

Shadowen looked at Mitchell. "Did John say anything out of the ordinary when the two of you walked back to the shop last night?"

"No, he barely said anything."

"Did you see Haviland actually leave the property earlier?"

"Yes, on foot. He headed toward the path leading to the antiques store—I assumed he'd left his car parked there so no one would hear him."

"How long after he left did you and John leave?"

"Maybe a half hour."

"But Haviland's car wasn't at the shop when you got there?"

"No. Sheriff, Dean Haviland was from around here, wasn't he?"

"Yeah, he was homegrown."

"Is it possible that he had unfinished business with a buddy or a relative?"

The sheriff's eyes narrowed. "I ask the questions around here, boy. You lawyers make a living trying to twist things all around, but in my experience, the most obvious explanation is usually the right one. John Metcalf shot Haviland for messing with his daughters, then took off. Obvious." A muscle ticked in the man's jaw. "Just like Elmore Bracken murdered Lyla Gilbert."

Mitchell looked like he wanted to respond, but Regina threw him a warning look.

The door opened and Deputy Pete stuck his head inside. "Sheriff, we found Haviland's car about a mile away from the shop, just off the road in the woods. Keys were on the seat and the whole thing was wiped clean of fingerprints."

The sheriff hummed. "John Metcalf probably dumped it, then walked back to the shop to leave in his own car. Any word on that APB?"

"Not yet."

"Well, come in. Now's as good a time as any to talk about the Bracken case."

And just like that, the day got worse.

Pete took a seat next to his father. He gave Regina a jerky nod, and she nodded back. All the activity was apparently making him nervous, because his hands moved constantly, scratching and tapping. The toothpick in his mouth twitched.

The sheriff glared at Mitchell. "You can leave."

Mitchell crossed his arms. "I'm Regina's attorney on this matter. I think I'll stay."

The sheriff glanced at her for confirmation and she nodded uneasily.

"Okay, Cooke, but keep your mouth shut." Sheriff Shadowen regarded each of the girls with blatant disapproval. "You girls made a big mistake by not coming to me with your story—then and now. We're all in a heap of dog shit. Now you're saying that the murder weapon was a piece of junk I won in a damn poker game. How do you think that looks?"

Not good, she conceded, but since he obviously knew as much, she remained silent.

He brought his meaty fist down on the table. "These stinking lawyers are going to keep everything stirred up until they get that murdering sonofabitch off. We put the right man behind bars twenty years ago. By raising questions, you're only hurting yourselves, your uncle, this department, and the memory of your dear aunt."

"Our dear aunt," Justine said, "was a slut."

"Justine," Regina chided.

"It's the truth," Justine said. "Everyone in town talked about her; even some of the guys in high school had laid her, right, Pete?"

Pete blushed and leaned over to scratch his ankle. "There was some talk, I guess."

Justine arched a red eyebrow. "I heard you were the one talking, Pete."

Regina felt her eyes go wide—she hadn't heard that gossip, but she and Justine had run in different crowds in high school.

Pete's blush drained. "You mean Dean, don't you, Justine? They were supposedly quite the item."

Her eyes went wider—Dean and Lyla?

"Hush, boy," the sheriff scolded. "What does that have to do with the price of tea in China? I'm saying we worked our asses off around here to get Bracken convicted and now, because of you girls, he might go free."

"Hold on," Mitchell said. "The hearing is to determine only if circumstances warrant a new trial, not whether Elmore Bracken goes free. If your investigative work on the Gilbert murder was thorough, Sheriff, you have nothing to worry about."

The sheriff pointed his finger. "I thought I told you to keep your mouth shut."

"I take orders from my client, not from you."

Before the older man could blow a gasket Regina interceded. "Sheriff, we still don't know who called in that tip, but—"

"I think it was Dean," Mica said.

All eyes went to her.

"What?" they chorused.

She covered her face with her hands, then sighed. "A few weeks ago, I told him about us witnessing the murder. It was stupid, I know, but I thought enough time had passed that it didn't matter."

"Idiot," Justine breathed, then she looked at Regina. "That pact didn't mean much to you two, did it?"

A pact on their sisterhood. Regina bit down on the tip of her tongue. Everything was unraveling.

"So," the sheriff said, "you believe that Dean called from a pay phone when he got to town."

"But why?" Regina asked.

"To flush us all down the damn drain," Justine said. "Why did Dean do anything? The asshole probably thought he could collect a reward."

Regina gave Mitchell an apologetic look across the table for blaming him. He returned a wry expression. She sighed. "Okay, well, what's done is done; we have to move forward. Sheriff, have you heard anything back from the Internet auction site?"

"No. They said it might take up to thirty days to respond."

"The hearing will be over by then."

"Nope," the sheriff said, whipping out a fax. "The hearing has been delayed to allow those bloodsucking attorneys to pull even more fairy tales out of their butts. Congratulations, ladies, you are now involved in, count 'em—
two
murders."

Chapter 22