The Devil Wore Sneakers (2 page)

“Nope, that’s how everyone described them. Your brother belonged to AA?”

She shrugged. “Ryan and I didn’t talk much. My last communication with him was a Christmas card with R at the bottom.”

“We’re also investigating Liam McAllister.”

“
Liam?
” A knot formed in her stomach.

The chief eyed her with interest. “Surprised? How many years since you’ve seen him?”

“Five.” She forced herself to relax her fisted hands
.
“He wouldn’t shoot Ryan. They were friends. Even if that changed, I know Liam’s not a killer.”

“A witness who doesn’t want to be named reported them arguing near the Mad Moose bar and believed they would come to blows. Your brother died later that night.”

Strange. “What did they quarrel about?”

“We’re looking into the squabble. Any ideas?”

“Me? No.” The chief had nothing. Her head hurt, but his last accusation irritated her more than her headache. “One fight doesn’t mean Liam would shoot my brother.”

“You were engaged to McAllister once, right?”

She went still at the familiar ache inside her. She couldn’t explain what she felt when her relationship with Liam came up. Was it anger, regret, or pain over the wasted four years of dating? Maybe it was the way he’d broken up with her.

Liam had ended their relationship on the day she’d expected a proposal. Then he’d gone off to party all night. Yes, that was the problem. No matter how hard she tried to forget, their last evening together was seared into her memory.

The chief cleared his throat.

“My relationship with Liam didn’t affect his with Ryan. They hung out long before Liam dated me.”

“McAllister showed up at your brother’s house when we arrived. Claimed he’d driven out because he was worried he hadn’t heard from Ryan in a while.”

Was he saying Liam knew her brother was dead and wanted to find out what the police had learned?

Sullivan sat silent, waiting for her reaction.

She shrugged. “Liam would be concerned.”

“We need to—”

“Investigate him. I understand.” She grabbed the handle of her suitcase, ready to leave and end this painful conversation.

“A couple more things, Miss Watson.” The chief shuffled through the papers in the folder. “Your ex-sister-in-law, Clarissa, gave us an inventory of your brother’s belongings.”

Sister
? Clarissa was never a sister. In high school, she’d been on the edge of the popular group. Marriage to Ryan had provided her a status with the partiers in town, which Ryan and Liam led.

“My brother didn’t own much. His furniture consisted of hand-me-downs. He had a used truck that he bought on credit. What little he had, Clarissa’s shark of a lawyer snapped up.” Had his finances changed?

“Clarissa listed your brother’s hunting rifles he inherited from your grandfather. There’s no record of insurance for them.”

“Gramps hunted and collected guns. Both he and Ryan thought insurance was a waste of money. I’m sure my brother didn’t value the weapons or else he’d have sold them. Why? Were they worth a lot?”

“They’re missing. Do you know anything about them?”

She shrugged. “Gramps and Ryan kept them in a locked gun box, but Ryan’s moved a couple of times since I’ve seen him. Ryan didn’t hunt. He might have gotten rid of them.” Typical Ryan. He would sell Gramps’s things without considering their sentimental value.

“No gun box turned up on the premises, and the investigators found no weapons in the house.”

Sullivan stared at her with such intensity; she doubted she wasn’t a suspect. Then it hit her. “Someone shot him for the firearms?”

“People will kill for less, Miss Watson.”

“Are they worth much?”

“Six rifles and the cabinet? Not cheap, and people who legally can’t get their hands on a weapon are willing to pay a little more. McAllister listed the ones he remembered.” The chief handed her a piece of paper. “Are these familiar?”

She read the names and manufacturers and passed the inventory to him. “I’m sorry. Yes, I shot at cans in the backyard with my grandfather, but I never was interested in his hunting rifles. The monikers mean nothing to me.”

“We’re watching online sites in case they turn up for sale.” He folded his hands together on the desk. “Your brother owned a pet, right?”

“Target.”

He nodded. “When we arrived, the door was open. The animal must have taken off. We searched the woods, but didn’t find him.”

“Ryan considered Target his best friend. He raised him from a pup.” Her brother showed a kinder side of himself when he was with his dog. If only he’d shared a slice of his heart with the people close to him.

“I have the animal’s picture for you.” The chief sifted through the piles of papers.

She’d go search for Target. He didn’t deserve to be forgotten or lost. Would he remember her and come when she called? Target could be lost forever. She shuddered.
Think of something else, a happier time.

She imagined her brother before a big date in high school. He’d be checking out his hair in the mirror, flashing his dimples. When people remarked that Lucy and Ryan looked like twins, she would elbow him and say thanks, but they weren’t related. Her parents had adopted her brother from a pack of wild wolves.

Ryan would mutter, “Adopted. I wish.”

Joking with Ryan was rare. He was consumed with himself. A jab of nausea warned her she might need to excuse herself.

“Here’s the photo.” The chief held up the picture of the white husky. “Your brother kept it on the mantle. If you want it for posters—”

She reached for it before he finished. “Thanks.”

He picked up a small manila envelope and spilled a key onto the desk. “For your

brother’s house.”

She stuffed the image of Target and the key in the zipper compartment of her suitcase.

Cool air might make her feel better.

“I’m sure our progress seems slow to you, but we’re conducting a thorough analysis of the facts. When we bring charges, they’ll stick, and remember, everything I’ve told you today is confidential.”

“I understand.” She pushed away from the chair. “When will Ryan’s body be released to the funeral home?”

“I’ll let Smitty know he should pick him up tomorrow.”

At least she could skip the morgue. She’d already identified Ryan’s corpse through a picture Sullivan had emailed her. “I’ll be heading out if we’re finished. I have a reservation at the Barley House B&B, where you can contact me.”

He shrugged. “Not much choice if you want to stay in town.”

She hoped her stay would be short. At least her boss at the Sleep Tight Hotel had promised to hold her job for the month. Then she’d be jobless.

“You got my number,” Sullivan said. “We’ll keep in touch.”

She rose and tugged her bag across the floor. A picture of former chiefs decorated the wall near the door. The date beneath the photo snagged her attention. It was the year her mom had died. She’d been ten and Ryan thirteen. For three years, their mother had fought to survive cancer and had leaned on Ryan and Lucy. Their father had hung with his best friend, the bottle.

Their dad’s apathy had forced Ryan into responsibilities he’d had trouble handling. Lucy closed her eyes against the pain that threatened to overwhelm her.

“Miss Watson?”

She blinked several times and turned to the chief.

“You take a left outside my office.” He grabbed his sandwich from the desk. The paper rustled as he unwrapped it. Bologna’s spicy odor floated to her.

The suspicion wormed into her mind that the chief was, despite his earlier words, more interested in his takeout than in her brother’s death. She’d keep an eye on Chief Sullivan and his progress.

She opened the door. Now she had to attend a funeral where one mourner might have fired a bullet into Ryan’s chest.

Chapter 3

March 17

Three days later, Lucy stood under a gray sky at the Barley Cemetery. Her stomach tightened as she stared at her brother’s casket positioned under the bare tree.

If tears flowing at a funeral measure love for the deceased, Ryan scored zero on the affection barometer. For most of his thirty years, he’d charmed and captivated friends. Then he would become bored and leave them behind. Many had disliked him. At times, he was selfish and grabbed what he could without worrying about the cost. After his childhood, he’d wanted to enjoy what he thought he’d missed.

His time to catch up had run out
.

A chill ran over her skin as she glimpsed the bare peaks of the White Mountains in the distance. She straightened to relieve the stress pulling on her shoulders.
Let me get through the next half hour without being sick
, she prayed as Father Francis, the rotund priest with hair tufts above his ears, spoke over her brother’s wooden box.

A few feet away, Clarissa frowned when Father offered vague words to describe her former husband. Her cold, dry eyes warned she wasn’t remembering the good times.

As usual, she wore her blonde mane in a not-a-strand-out-of-place bob. Her navy dress, sweater, and shoes matched her nail polish. Women who dressed fashionably had always attracted her brother.

Clarissa had been a young woman with a feisty nature until life with Ryan had sapped her vigor. Had she shot Ryan six days ago and left him to bleed to death?

Mr. Carlyle was next to Clarissa. He taught algebra at the high school. He had expressed his sympathy to Lucy before the ceremony. Up close, he appeared too frail to hold a textbook, never mind a gun.

None of Ryan’s students attended the ceremony, but the funeral was private. Maybe the twenty-something strawberry blonde beside the balding Mr. Carlyle was a former pupil of Ryan’s.

Or not. She resembled the endless string of women Ryan had flirted with and dated. Thin, with an innocent, freckled face, she wore a simple but stylish ebony dress with a short jacket. The young woman held a tissue in one hand and a clutch in the other. Her lip trembled as she glanced at the casket. Was she upset because of Ryan’s death or over how he’d treated her before she’d shot him?

A wind blew sticks across the frozen ground near the mourners and the coffin.

“Sometimes love lasts a moment and sometimes love lasts forever,” Father murmured.

The first was her brother. Love ‘em and move on to better.

Father Francis blessed them and finished speaking. The small group gave their attention to her.

She cleared her throat. This was when a relative invited the grievers to her house. But she had no house or apartment.

She gripped her hands together at the waist of her black dress. “Thank you for coming.”

Their gazes remained glued on her, expecting more. Sweat trickled down her neck, although the chill hung in the air.

She groped for something to say. “I appreciate your being here.” That sounded lame. “Have a good—”

The loud screech of tires drowned out her attempt to dismiss the gathering. A speeding silver pickup swerved on the graveyard’s dirt road toward the iron fence and slammed to a stop. Everyone’s attention swiveled to the newcomer.

“I was about to suggest we return to our daily lives and be thankful for them,” she blurted, hoping she didn’t sound like a bad sister since she’d planned nothing more for her brother.

The new arrival left his truck and sauntered to them. The nerves in her stomach protested as Lucy recognized Liam McAllister. He’d come. Once, she’d thought they were meant to be together. She’d been young and naive then.

Everyone was gazing at her as though they expected a showdown.
Super.
The funeral was bad enough without adding Liam to the mix. Old memories and emotions attacked her. At any moment, the tears would slide down her cheeks.

He slowed his confident gait. At six-three, Liam’s size had made him a star on the high school basketball team and the focus of attention whenever he entered a room. He had a clean-shaven, square jaw and a wide chest his flannel shirt couldn’t hide. He wore faded jeans and scuffed work boots. People often underestimated Liam’s sharp mind because of his casual dress and easygoing nature, which turned fiery when he thought others lied or mistreated him or those he loved.

He stopped when he reached their circle. Running a hand through his overgrown sandy-blond hair, he studied her with hazel-green eyes.

She wet her dry lips, hoping she didn’t give away the anxiety urging her to excuse herself and run. Instead, she inclined her head to him. “Thanks for coming, Liam.”

Her voice came out low. If he heard the comment, he didn’t acknowledge her. He clapped his hands together. “I’m sorry I’m late. Please, don’t let me interrupt the service.”

Father Francis pushed up his dark-framed glasses that matched his black overcoat and frowned. “We are
finished
, Liam.”

The priest’s clipped words suggested she wasn’t alone in her annoyance.

Liam faced the mourners. “If it’s okay with Lucy, you’re all welcome to gather at the Mad Moose for a bite—” He leveled his gaze on her again.