Dead Ringer (20 page)

I smiled. “Sure. That would be great.”

“Brilliant.” I caught a flash of his dimples before he said, “Cheers,” and disappeared down the hall.

I stood in the middle of the kitchen, processing what had happened.

I had a date. With a really cute guy.

My smile morphed into a goofy grin.

Maybe my love life wasn't on such a bad track after all.

The front door shut with a thud and the dead bolt locked with a clunk. JT and Finnegan returned to the kitchen without Aaron and Hamish.

“What's up with you?” JT asked when he saw my goofy expression.

“Nothing.” I busied myself with shutting and locking the back door, doing my best to replace my grin with a neutral expression.

“So what was it you were so worked up about?”

I slapped my hands on top of my head. “I can't believe I forgot about that.”

A trace of amusement lit up JT's eyes. “Aaron did seem to distract you.”

My hands went from my head to my hips. “Don't tease. I have something important to tell you.”

He settled himself on a stool at the breakfast bar. “I'm listening . . .”

Excitement tingled up my spine as I prepared to share my news. “I found evidence that Reverend McAllister is guilty.”

 

Chapter 21

“G
UILTY OF WHAT?”

I nearly rolled my eyes right out of my head. “JT, where have you been for the past week?”

“I mean in relation to which crime. The murder? The arson? One of the break-­ins? All of the above?”

“All of them.” I rethought my answer. “Or at least some of them.”

JT didn't look nearly as impressed as I thought he should.

“The intruder who broke into Mrs. Landolfi's basement the night I was there wore a dark hooded sweatshirt with white writing on the hood.”

“Okay. So?”

“
So,
Reverend McAllister has a black hoodie with white writing on the hood. I saw it with my own eyes. It was hanging on the back of his office door.”

“And you think that means McAllister was the intruder?”

“Well, duh!”

“Dori, how many ­people in Vancouver alone do you think own a black or dark hoodie with white writing on the hood?”

I opened my mouth to respond and shut it again. Some of my excitement fizzled away, leaving me feeling like a can of root beer left standing open for too long.

“Exactly,” JT said to my silence.

I slumped onto the stool next to him, but a second later I perked up. “Okay, but how many ­people connected to the crimes have a sweatshirt like that? McAllister had a motive to kill Jeremy, the murder happened right in his church,
and
he owns a sweatshirt like the one the intruder wore.”

“All right, so it's another connection,” JT conceded. “But don't be surprised if the police don't jump up and down with excitement when you tell them.”

“Hmm. I guess I should tell them, huh?” That hadn't yet occurred to me, even though it probably should have. “And I won't be surprised if they're not excited. I don't think Bachman and Salnikova would jump up and down with excitement even if they won the Lotto Max jackpot.” I glanced at the clock on the wall above the kitchen sink. “I'll call them in the morning.”

I tapped my fingers on the granite countertop. I had to admit that pegging McAllister as the guilty party didn't explain why Ray (assuming it was Ray in custody) had broken into Jeremy's basement suite. But that incident wasn't necessarily related to the others. McAllister could still be guilty of killing Jeremy, setting the fire, and committing the first break-­in at Mrs. Landolfi's and the one at my apartment.

Whether my information about the hoodie would help lead the police to arrest the reverend, I didn't know. I only knew that I believed the information was important. I'd share it with the detectives, and what they did with it from there was up to them. I hoped they'd take the tip seriously, though. If McAllister was guilty of even half of what I suspected, he needed to be behind bars before he had the chance to commit any more crimes.

“Did Aaron ask you out?”

I didn't expect JT's question or the change in subject, so it took me a few ticks of the clock's second hand to steer my mind in the new direction.

“Yes, he did.”

“And did you say yes?”

I sat up straighter as worry gnawed at me. “Is that okay?”

JT gave me an odd look. “Why wouldn't it be?”

“I don't know. Maybe you don't want me to date a member of your band.”

“That's not an issue.”

He said nothing more, but I knew that wasn't the end of it. I didn't know if it was something in his eyes or a vibe he emitted, but I could tell he wasn't happy for me.

“Then what's wrong?” My recent experience with Hans flashed through my mind. “Aaron
is
single, isn't he?”

“As far as I know.”

“No secret wife or girlfriend hidden away back in England?”

A grin tugged at one corner of JT's mouth. “If she were a secret, I wouldn't know about her, would I?”

I checked my pockets for my phone but they were empty. “I should Google him.” I slipped off my stool and dashed down the hall to my studio.

“Seriously?” JT called after me.

It only took me three seconds to retrieve my phone from my bag. As soon as I had it in hand, I skedaddled back to the kitchen and resumed my perch at the breakfast bar.

I accessed the Internet and paused, thumbs hovering over the touch screen. “What's his last name?”

JT shook his head as if he thought I'd lost mine but he answered my question. “Howsham.”

“Oh, good. Not too common.”

I typed Aaron's name into the search bar and pressed enter. I blinked and the search results appeared. I scanned through them. Aside from a ­couple links to social media profiles and an article about his previous band, the Web didn't have much to say about him. I gave the article and the profiles a quick glance but nothing set red flags waving in my head.

“Anything?”

“Nope. Thank God.” I added the word ‘girlfriend' to his name for another search. When that brought nothing to light, I tried one last search, this time replacing ‘girlfriend' with ‘married.'

JT watched from his seat at my elbow. “Again, seriously?”

“Can you blame me for wanting to be careful this time?” When my latest search yielded no relevant results, a small puff of relief wafted through my body.

“No, I don't blame you.”

A note of solemnity had entered his voice. It grabbed my attention, and I remembered what had put me on this track in the first place.

“What's wrong? Why don't you want me going out with Aaron?”

JT shifted on his stool and his eyes strayed down to Finnegan. “I just don't want you rushing into anything if you still need time to get over the fiasco with Clausen.”

I leaned toward him and hugged his upper arm, resting my head on his shoulder. “You're a good friend, JT.” I straightened up but kept one arm looped around his. “I can't say that Hans didn't hurt me, but I'm working on getting over it. And Aaron might even help me get over it.”

“So he'll be your rebound guy?”

I released my loose grip on his arm and swatted his biceps. “I'm not saying he'll be my anything guy. All I've agreed to so far is one date. If that goes well and he's still interested . . .” I sighed, my thoughts drifting in a slightly different direction. “I just want someone in my life, you know? The right someone.”

“Yes. I know the feeling.”

Something in his voice told me that he really did understand, and I wondered if he had some of the same concerns about his life as I had about mine. I considered asking him about it, even though I wasn't sure it was a topic a guy would want to get into in depth, but he didn't give me a chance.

He got up from his stool. “I'm going to watch some news. How about you?”

“No. I think I'll head straight to bed.”

“Come on, Finnegan.”

Finn jumped to his feet and anticipated JT's next move, trotting off down the hall.

“Good night,” JT called over his shoulder as he followed his canine companion.

“Night.”

I remained at the breakfast bar for another minute or two after JT and Finnegan retired to the living room. Considering the sincerity behind JT's words moments earlier, I had to question how he felt about Shauna. I knew that they'd only met recently, but something told me he hadn't yet found what he was looking for in his relationship with her.

For some reason that filled me with little bubbles of something I couldn't quite identify. Hope? Happiness?

Whatever the feeling was, I squashed it before it could take on its full shape.

I didn't even know Shauna. I shouldn't want JT to break up with her. I should only want him to do whatever made him happiest.

I swallowed back the fear that I was a bad friend and refused to examine the source of my sudden confusion of thoughts and feelings. I was tired and had a lot on my mind. Most likely Mikayla's comments from the night before were playing tricks on my sleep-­hungry brain.

The best thing for me to do was to get to bed. In the morning I would talk to the police and tell them about McAllister and his black hooded sweatshirt.

W
HEN
I
MADE
my way downstairs the following morning, the house was silent. JT and Finnegan were both absent, as was Finn's leash, so I figured they'd gone off on an early morning walk or run. I munched my way through an apple and sipped at a cappuccino while I checked e-­mail on my phone.

I had a message from one of my adult students letting me know she was sick and wouldn't be at her lesson that day. I sent off a quick reply to tell her I'd received her message and I hoped she'd feel better soon. As I hit send, a phone call came through from my mom. Even though my parents lived out of town, they'd read about Jeremy's murder, and were alarmed that someone who played in the same orchestra as I did had been killed in such a violent manner. I did my best to reassure my mom that I was safe, even though I didn't know if that was the case. I omitted any mention of the fire, the break-­in at my apartment, or the fact that I was camped out at JT's place for fear that someone might try to harm me again.

Once I'd put my mom's mind at ease and ended the phone call, I dialed the number on the card Salnikova had given me on the night of Jeremy's murder. The detective's phone rang four times and went to voice mail. I paced the kitchen as I listened to detective Salnikova's recorded voice, pausing by the sink when a beep sounded in my ear. I left a brief message, stating that I had some information to share and asking her to contact me.

I hung up and put my cappuccino cup in the dishwasher before heading to the foyer to pull on my black high-­heeled boots. It was frustrating that I couldn't talk to Salnikova right then, but I decided to focus on what I could do—­visit the church again and try to find more evidence to link McAllister to Jeremy's death and the other crimes.

I was certain JT wouldn't approve of my plan, so I hoped to slip out of the house before he and Finnegan returned from their morning outing. I only made it as far as the front porch before I realized that the clear sky of the day before had clouded over. A cool breeze rustled the leaves of the rhododendron bush next to the front steps, and the thick gray clouds held a promise of rain.

I ducked back inside the house and dashed up the stairs to retrieve a light jacket from the guest room. Then I was back down, out the door, and on my way to the church, still with no sign of JT or Finnegan.

The bus dropped me off two blocks from the church, the closest it was possible to get by public transportation. Despite the disappearance of the spring sunshine, I enjoyed the short walk to my destination. The cool air was fresh, and the light wind only helped to waft the sweet smells of spring toward my appreciative nose.

When the church came into view, I spotted a woman jogging toward me from the opposite direction. As we drew closer to each other, I recognized her as Estelle, McAllister's sister. It was strange to see her in running gear rather than her conservative, officelike attire, but for all I knew, athletic clothing could have been more of a norm for her than pencil skirts and pantsuits.

I was about to call out a cheery greeting when I nearly choked. Along with her black leggings and running shoes, she wore a black hoodie sweatshirt. From my vantage point I couldn't tell if the hood had white writing on it, but I was determined to find out if it did.

Recovering my voice, I raised a hand in a wave and called out, “Good morning!”

Estelle slowed to a walk and returned my wave. “It's a lovely, refreshing day, don't you think?” she said when we were within a few feet of each other.

“Absolutely,” I replied.

As Estelle grabbed one foot behind her to stretch out her quads, I slid my eyes to the hood of her sweatshirt. My heart thudded in my chest.

UNITED IN FAITH
was written in white lettering along the edge of the hood.

I swallowed, wondering what this meant. Should Estelle be on my suspect list too?

Her sweatshirt was smaller than McAllister's, so she hadn't borrowed his. How many other ­people had the same one?

“Reverend McAllister has the same sweatshirt,” I said, trying my best to sound casual and not overly interested.

Estelle dropped her left foot and kicked up her right one for the same stretch. “That's right. We sold them as part of a fund-­raiser last fall. I should think half the congregation has one.”

Great. So much for my valuable piece of information. Now I'd feel like a fool when Salnikova returned my phone call. I'd known all along that the sweatshirt clue wasn't the strongest piece of evidence to link McAllister to the break-­in at Mrs. Landolfi's place, but now it was weaker than ever. It still suggested that the intruder was somebody with a connection to the church, but if Estelle was right, that left a long list of possible suspects.

I maintained my belief that McAllister was guilty, but I now doubted that Detectives Salnikova and Bachman would find my information the least bit compelling. Heck, even I didn't find it compelling anymore. That only left me more determined than ever to find more evidence to support my theory of McAllister's guilt.

“Are you heading to the church?” Estelle inclined her head in that direction.

“Yes, actually,” I said.

Estelle seemed puzzled. “You don't have rehearsal today, do you?”

“Um, no.” I scrambled around in my mind for a believable excuse for my presence. “But I'm thinking of joining the church.”

The words came out before I could stop them, and right away I wanted to kick myself.

Estelle, on the other hand, brightened. “That's wonderful. Why don't you come upstairs and I'll see if Cindy is free to tell you more about our congregation and ser­vices?”

“Great,” I said, trying my best to infuse the word with some enthusiasm. “Thanks.”