B00NRQWAJI (20 page)

To that end, Rittenhaus questioned me. And he loomed over me, one hand on the doorframe, which made me feel like I’d just been busted for spray-painting my name on the wall of the high school. Dawkins, standing in Rittenhaus’s shadow, scratched down my every word in his spiral-bound notebook each time I spoke.

Of course, I knew this little confabulation was necessary. Rittenhaus needed to establish Kayley’s movements in order to put together a timeline that would point to contact with her assailant. But since he’d written off Eric Wentz’s death quickly and easily, I didn’t mind being detained.

In fact, I could’ve hugged Rittenhaus for his diligence for Kayley.

He said, “Did you get a sense Kayley had a reason for not wanting to go with you? Like maybe she wanted to be free to meet up with a guy?”

“No. Like I said, she wanted to keep working. The cold weather had brought in some last minute business, but Mrs. Barrett sent her home because it was after hours and it looked like rain.”

“Uh-huh.” Rittenhaus crossed his arms over his chest, stared down his crooked nose at me. “You found that hunter’s blind fast enough. Did Adam tell you where it was?”

Changing the subject was an old investigator’s trick.

And I didn’t like Rittenhaus using it on me.

I said, “You mean so I could lead you to Kayley after he assaulted and murdered her? No.”

“Now, don’t get huffy—”

“Then don’t get clever,” I warned. “It doesn’t suit you, Rittenhaus.”

Regretting my tone, I closed my grainy eyes, pinched the bridge of my nose. But that didn’t block out the sight of Kayley, abused, broken. And very dead.

“It was the vulture that clued me in,” I said, trying to be helpful this time. “And the blind’s proximity to the route she would’ve taken to get home. But your guys would’ve found her when you widened the search perimeter this afternoon.”

“Maybe.” He scrubbed a hand across his lantern jaw. “Miss Sinclair, do you usually wear your hair in a ponytail?”

I froze. I didn’t like where he was going with this line of thought. Because standing in that clearing, listening to Jed Miller’s denial that the victim I’d found was indeed his daughter, it had occurred to me that Kayley, in my jacket and with her ponytail, looked a little bit like me.

“I guess I wear my hair up,” I replied, “when I’m working.”

“And what have you been working on here in Fallowfield?”

“You know. Mrs. Barrett asked me to spring her grandson from your jail and talk some sense into him.”

“How’d that turn out?”

“Professionally?”

“Personally.”

“You know that, too.”

Barrett had given me my walking papers.

But Rittenhaus didn’t point that out to me.

He and I looked down the drive to where Barrett stood, blond and brooding, behind a line of orange pylons. The deputies and other volunteers had given him the cold shoulder since I’d found Kayley’s battered body. Now, as they pored over county maps and made plans to canvass residents on the side roads for witnesses, they regarded him like he had the plague.

“You’re still in Fallowfield,” Rittenhaus said to me. “Why is that?”

“I’m a glutton for punishment.”

And this was certainly true.

Since we’d left the creekside, Barrett had avoided me just as carefully as his neighbors avoided him. Sure, he’d wrapped me in his arms to hold me back from direct interference in a crime scene. But once Dawkins escorted me from the clearing, Barrett had put as much distance between us as possible.

And that was insult to injury.

I hadn’t come to terms with the fact that had hit me after I’d come home from the Fallowfield Library: I cared for Barrett far more than I’d realized. But since he didn’t care that way about me, I needed to get over it. I needed to do it soon, too. Because I was swamped with feelings of longing and loss. And those feelings were eating me alive.

Rittenhaus said, “You aren’t sticking around to snoop into other matters while you’re here, are you?”

“I don’t snoop. I investigate.”

“For clients? Or for friends? Maybe you’ve made some enemies while you’ve been here.”

“You tell me,” I retorted.

Rittenhaus actually smiled. It was a polite smile. With just a touch of sympathy.

“The overnight report reached me a little while ago. It seems you called in to say a vehicle chased you down and rear-ended you. Did you happen to get a description of the driver?”

“No, except—”

“They drove Eric Wentz’s car.”

“That’s right.”

Rittenhaus nodded thoughtfully. “Hang tight. I’ll be back in a sec.”

He left me with Dawkins. And stalked off to talk to Barrett. Neither man glanced at me, but I got the distinct impression I was the topic of conversation.

And I didn’t like it one bit.

“Want another cup of coffee?” Dawkins asked.

“No, thanks.”

One of the families up the road had brought in urns of the stuff. They’d passed around homemade sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, too. I was sure getting a crash course in how adversity knit small communities together.

With his eyes on his boss, Dawkins said, “The sheriff’s really bent out of shape about this killing.”

“I’d hope he gets bent out of shape about
every
killing.”

Dawkins’s monobrow reached for his hairline, and too late, I realized I’d been unkind.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I take it back.”

But Dawkins glanced over his shoulder. It was as if he wanted to know the coast was clear. And though it was just the two of us this far up the drive, he lowered his voice.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said, Miz Sinclair. About the deceased, Eric Wentz. Can you meet me later?”

“Of course.” Adrenaline poured into my bloodstream. It was all I could do to sit still. “Where?”

“You’re staying at Miz Barrett’s?”

“That’s right.”

“I’ll be along the windbreak beside the barn tonight. I’ll aim for nine, but I may be late. We’re, uh, kinda busy today. And can you do me a favor?”

“Anything, Dawkins.”

“Be doubly sure you watch your step and don’t tell the sheriff you’re meeting me.”

I nodded—just as Rittenhaus returned. Barrett was by his side, but he wouldn’t meet my eye. Dawkins got busy flipping his notebook shut and stuffing it in his pocket.

“You’re free to go,” Rittenhaus announced. “Can I make a suggestion?”

“Why not?” I said. Barrett seemed inordinately interested in the gravel at his feet; Dawkins, in the clouds in the sky. “It’s a free country.”

“Then I suggest you get in that fancy green car of yours and go back to D.C., Miss Sinclair,” the sheriff said.

And with that, he walked away.

Chapter 21

“You want to tell me what that was about?” I demanded as Barrett and I tramped up the road toward his grandma’s house.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Like hell.

“Rittenhaus’s warning, Barrett. He seemed to come up with it after his little chat with you.”

Barrett didn’t respond. He just kept putting one foot in front of the other. The curious, who must’ve heard about Kayley already, drove past us in a slow but steady stream. Some folks tapped their horns and waved at Barrett in a show of neighborly greeting. Others just pointed at him like he was some kind of exhibit on the hoof in a wildlife park.

Adam Barrett,
Homo sapiens sapiens
.

In his unnatural habitat.

Finally, Barrett said, “Luke thinks you should leave Fallowfield.”

“Yeah, I got that much,” I grumbled. “Apparently, he’s on your side. Maybe we should poll the rest of the community.”

“This isn’t about taking sides, Jamie.”

We’d reached the edge of his grandmother’s orchard. Barrett hopped the ditch, cut between the orderly trees. I followed suit, saw that a black-and-white
CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE
placard had been slapped onto the
BARRETT ORCHARD
sign.

But as we bypassed the festive scarecrow atop his pile of gourds and neared the house, I could see a minivan parked in front of the greenhouse. Its tailgate was open. Calvin Mead was stashing bushel baskets of apples in the cargo area.

Cal sketched a small wave when he saw us. Barrett ignored him, veered toward his grandmother’s shop instead. Before he could reach it, the door opened. Mrs. Barrett and Charlotte stepped out into the thin sunshine.

Charlotte had an invoice in her hand.

During my short stay in Fallowfield, I’d never seen Charlotte without an apron, but she’d left it behind this afternoon. Her jeans and bright ginger sweater fit her in all the right places. In comparison, I felt my figure must’ve held all the appeal of a tongue depressor.

Mrs. Barrett, on the other hand, looked fragile and thin, like a stiff breeze could carry her away. If Barrett noticed this, it was anyone’s guess, but he asked his grandmother to join him in the shop for a minute—and she did. As the door closed with the jingle of the sleigh bells, I knew he was going to tell her about Kayley.

“Are you all right?” Charlotte asked.

I realized I’d trailed Barrett toward the shop and come to a halt alongside her van. It was parked in a sunny patch, but I felt cold through and through. I wrapped my arms around my middle, tried to hug some warmth into my soul.

“I’m fine,” I said.

Which was more than I could say for Barrett.

Or for Kayley.

“We heard about the Miller girl,” Charlotte offered. “Such a shame.”

“Yeah, everyone keeps saying that.”

“Well, everyone’s pretty shaken up about it.” She touched my shoulder. “I’d say you are, too.”

“Sorry.” I scrubbed my hands across my face, willed myself to be all right. “It was a long night. Followed by a long morning.”

The door to the gift shop opened. Mrs. Barrett emerged with her grandson shadowing her. She made her way to me. Instinctively, I reached a hand to her. She took it—and clasped it in both of hers.

“If this awful thing had to happen,” she said, “I’m glad you were the one who found her, Jamie.”

I didn’t know what to say.

And if I had, I doubted the lump in my throat would’ve let me say it.

The older woman left me then, crunching carefully down the drive, toward the farmhouse. Barrett remained rooted to the spot next to me, but he watched his grandmother like a lion watches its cub. I didn’t breathe until she was safely in her kitchen.

“That lady is strong,” Cal said admiringly, “inside and out.”

“She’s got to be thinking of Pamela,” Charlotte added. “Everybody’s thinking of Pamela.”

Like a windup toy, Barrett jerked to life.

He took off like a shot, tromped toward the garage.

“Hey, Adam,” Cal called after him. “Char’s closed the café for the day and Jeff Stephensen is getting everybody together to remember Eric at the fire ring tonight. You should come. Bring Jamie.”

But Barrett didn’t even acknowledge that Calvin had spoken to him. His leg gave him a little trouble as he jogged up the stairs to his garage apartment. But he made it just fine, went inside, and slammed the door.

I shivered with the sound.

And Cal noticed.

“Don’t let Adam get you down,” he told me. “He’s always been like that.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Aloof. Edgy. All the girls loved him for it.” Cal closed the van’s rear hatch. “But I guess everyone’s edgy today. Come out with us tonight. Have a beer. You’ll feel better.”

At that moment, I doubted I’d ever feel better again, but I kept that opinion to myself. On the back of an old takeout menu, Charlotte sketched directions to this meet-up at the so-called fire ring, and I stuffed the page in my pocket, let her think I’d use them. But I suspected Barrett wouldn’t be happy with me if I showed up—and neither would the sheriff.

When the Meads left with their apples, I made a beeline for the house. I wanted a hot shower, a change of clothes, and a nap, if my mind would let me rest. But I also wanted to be sure Miranda Barrett was okay.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel an affinity for the lady. I wanted to think it was because I admired her tenacity to hold on to what was dear to her despite circumstance—and the complicated fact that she could do this despite being on her own. The reality that she’d helped to raise a man who tangled up my heartstrings made no nevermind.

At least, that’s what I told myself.

I found Mrs. Barrett seated on the piano bench in her pretty living room. She’d lifted one of the framed photographs from the top of the instrument, cradled it in her lap. It was a snapshot of Barrett. I slipped a sideways glance at it, figured he was only fourteen or fifteen in the pic. And judging by the open, honest, boyish grin he wore, I’d have said it was taken before his father’s death.

Mrs. Barrett didn’t look at me. She simply said, “That army sergeant called me this morning.”

“Shelby.”

“Yes, that’s the one. She said she didn’t want to alarm me, but she asked whether I’d heard from Adam lately. I lied to her, Jamie. I’m not a lying woman.”

“I know you’re not.”

“I suppose, given what you do for a living, folks lie to you all the time.”

I didn’t reply.

She stood, replaced the picture on the long doily topping the piano, brushed young Barrett’s cheek lovingly with her twisted fingers. “Lies can be told in any manner of ways, can’t they?”

And something she left unsaid had dread coiling in the pit of my stomach.

I said, “Is someone lying now? About Kayley?”

“I’m not sure. I know someone lied about Pamela, though.”

“When?”

She crossed to the window, peered past the lace panel. “I can’t say I blame Mrs. Wentz for claiming Pamela didn’t have a silky burgundy nightie. Such things mean something to women from the older generations. You see, we were taught we weren’t supposed to know too much about what goes on in the bedroom before we got married.”

“And you think Mrs. Wentz may’ve lied because she was worried Pamela was showing too much interest in, um, the bedroom.”

“In the bedroom, yes. And especially in Adam.”

“Did Adam tell you Pamela visited him? Or did you hear that from Sheriff Bowker?”