Mind Your Own Beeswax (26 page)

“You must really like kids,” I said, “to become a leader.”

“I’ve always liked them,” Norm said. “Hetty did, too.”

I almost snorted at that. Norm read my expression.

“Hetty was a very private person,” he said. “And kids didn’t respect that as much as they should have. She just wanted them to stay away.”

“I’m absolutely convinced you didn’t pull any of those mean pranks.”

“Get out of my house,” Norm said, exploding the same way he had when Carrie Ann and I visited with the casserole and told him people were talking about Lantern Man maybe being involved in the murders.

He didn’t even try to control his temper. Or it just blew out before he knew it was happening. He had some of the same signs I’ve witnessed from Johnny Jay when he’d lose control over his emotions. Overly red face. Clenched jaw. Bulging neck veins and enlarged Adam’s apple. Raised voice. On a scale of one to ten with ten being raging, Norm would rate an eight or nine.

The guy was headed for a massive coronary at this rate.

Good thing Ben was right outside the door. If I needed him, I better get closer, so I could make a run for it. I didn’t think Ben could get right through the screen to protect me.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” I said, after totally upsetting him and considering how to do damage control. “I just want to understand.”

“Get out.” Norm took a few steps forward, towering over me, and I shuffled backward, tripping only once before he slammed the door and left me on his porch with Ben and a foot wet with urine.

I’d really handled that well.

Before I got into my truck, I rubbed my germ-infested bare foot in the grass in Norm’s lawn while Ben marked some shrubs to let Dinky know who was boss.

Hunter called my cell phone and, as soon as he found out I was on my way to his house, arranged to meet me there for an
interlude
(his words). I wasn’t fooled by his romantic word choice. The man was ultra-focused on crime solving, as he should be.

Once Johnny Jay was in custody, we would have time for something much longer, like a rhapsody. Or so I hoped.

Absence, I was finding out, really did make my heart grow fonder. And my mind clearer. I hadn’t had conflicting thoughts about us as a couple for almost a whole day.

“Have you arrested Johnny Jay yet?” I said, the second thing I did after getting out of my truck. The first thing I did was check out Hunter and proclaim him as hot as ever.

He had his arms wrapped around me in a miss-you bear hug when I asked about Johnny. He relaxed his grip and stepped back, gazing into my eyes. Then holding my hand, he led me to a patio table where he’d put out a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses. We sat down close to each other.

“You decided to press charges?” he asked.

“No, but most likely he killed Lauren and Hetty.”

“I suppose you have proof to back up any accusation you have against Johnny Jay.” Hunter poured lemonade and handed a glass to me.

“Process of elimination,” I said, like I really knew this stuff. “He hated Lauren because she killed his father. So when she came back, he lost control and killed her. Revenge is a powerful motive. You’ve said that yourself. I know you have to actually prove he did it, but could you please hurry up?”

“Has he come near you again?”

“No, not exactly, but he threatened me. Verbally. He called my cell and wanted to meet me, pretending he had to tell me something.”

“Maybe he wanted to beg for your forgiveness.”

I snorted at the thought of that unlikely possibility. “He could have apologized over the phone. And are you suggesting I should have agreed to meet him face-to-face after what he did to me last time?”

“He didn’t murder anybody, Story, so get that out of your head. But no, meeting him would be foolish. He’s a vengeful guy who needs anger-management training.”

I could have told him Johnny Jay wasn’t the only one with excessive anger problems. Norm Cross was a hothead, too. But I didn’t want to muddy the water. “If you plan to let Johnny run loose like a rabid dog, I’ve decided to go for the restraining order.”

So far, our interlude wasn’t going so well, thanks in part to me. Okay, thanks
all
to me. But Hunter hadn’t arrested the killer, even though I was the next target and slated for death. I was scared.

Hunter rubbed his face, looking tired. “A restraining order takes time.”

“Pull some strings.”

“I can’t do that. Like I told you, you have to fill out paperwork, go before a judge. Johnny will have an opportunity to defend himself against whatever charges you make.”

That wouldn’t be good. In fact, that would only make him madder. I was running out of options. Leaving town was back on the table.

I couldn’t help that my eyes were filling with tears. Not the boo-hoo, poor-me variety, but the totally frustrated kind. To give Hunter credit, he noticed and tried to cheer me up. “You and Johnny have been going head-to-head as long as I’ve known you, and up until the other day, he hadn’t displayed any signs of physical aggression. Right? He’s just loud and obnoxious. Right?”

I didn’t want to admit that Hunter was right. “He’s always been a jerk and is rotten to everybody. Me more than most.”

He continued by saying, “Johnny lost it and he’s paying dearly. The guy’s smart enough to stay away from you. He wants his job back and the key to returning to his office is making things right. He told me you deserved a public apology from him.”

“Oh, sure, like that’s going to happen.”

“But he didn’t kill anybody.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Story, you’re making this hard for me. Everything about this case is confidential at this point. You can come up with all the circumstantial evidence in the world, but unless you bring me something concrete, I’m not jumping to conclusions.”

“Humph,” I said, sounding like my mother.

“Story, I have to believe that cops are the good guys. If I started doubting my own team, I might as well give up and quit.”

“Okay. I understand.” And I really did. Hunter’s world was more black and white than mine was. I sighed heavily. “Carrie Ann’s in trouble again. I think she’s drinking.”

“I’m keeping an eye out for her. Is she at the store?”

“Not right now.”

I thought about Carrie Ann wanting to hide and about Hunter questioning Gunnar, and I wanted to ask all kinds of questions. But now wasn’t the time. Hunter looked tense.

“I should be on your list, too,” I said, putting a little suggestiveness into my voice, so the implication was clear that I wasn’t going to bug him anymore.

“You’re at the very top,” he replied, catching my drift. Men could do that—change direction mid-stream as long as the subject interests them.

“Then why aren’t you grilling me?”

Hunter grinned at me playfully, only it wasn’t all play on my part. I really wanted to know why he needed information from Gunnar and Carrie Ann, yet not from me.

“You heard that I was asking Gunnar questions,” he said, on to me from the start. “I don’t have any reason to question you, because I knew exactly where you were every step of the way.”

I reached over and took his hand, rubbing his palms, massaging the stress from each of his fingers, until he relaxed. Fifteen minutes later we pulled out of his driveway, Hunter going one way to seek truth and justice, me going another to get ready for an Irish wake.

The only thing I knew for sure was that Hunter was looking for clues in the past. And what did he mean about knowing where I was every step of the way? What was my almost boyfriend up to?

All I know about Irish wakes:

The first blessing reminded me of Stanley Peck and his limp. Tonight he’d be walking straighter than ever, so we wouldn’t think badly of him. The second one made me more aware than ever that Lauren Kerrigan’s death hadn’t been quick and easy like Chopper’s. She’d stayed alive long enough to try to crawl for help. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what she went through in the last moments of her life.

Holly, Patti, and I walked into Stu’s Bar and Grill twenty minutes after the wake officially began, and we were already way behind everybody else in the celebration department. Stu and his staff were struggling to keep up with requests for Irish wake cocktails and the drinks were going as fast as they could make them. We waited our turns then grabbed our drinks, dropping bills on the counter to pay for them and stuffing dollar bills into a coffee can set up for donations to Chopper’s immediate family.

I expressed my condolences to Chopper’s wife, Fiona, and to several other members of the Murphy family, saying pretty much the same thing I’d said at his funeral. With one addition. “I hope this wake is what Chopper needs to move on,” I said.

“Me, too,” Fiona agreed.

Grams and her card-playing buddies had set up at a table in the corner and were dealing hands of gin rummy. One seat was vacant, but that didn’t stop them from dealing in the invisible player. Another wake tradition—the extra place was for Chopper Murphy, in case he decided to join the game from the spirit world.

“This tastes too alcoholly,” P. P. Patti said after taking a taste of her Irish wake and making a sourpuss face. “Like really strong booze.”

“Well, yeah,” my sister said. “One-fifty-one rum. You can actually flame it with that kind of alcohol content.”

“I don’t want it,” Patti replied.

“Give it to me,” I said. Patti handed it over and I quickly became a two-fisted drinker. Just in time to be greeted by Mom.

“Drinking a little heavy, Story?” she said, disapproval stamped on her gathered eyebrows.

“Umm. This one’s for you.” I attempted to hand it to her.

But Mom didn’t bite, at least not that way. “You know I don’t drink.”

“It has maraschino cherries in it?” A drink would do wonders for my mother’s disposition. It might put some color in her pale cheeks and a real smile on her face.

“Hi, Mrs. Fischer,” Patti said. “I’m not drinking one of those strong things.”

“Some of us have more sense than others,” Mom said.

“Alcohol robs you of brain cells,” the brownnoser said. But camaraderie has never worked on my mother. She ignored Patti.

“I’m sitting at a table behind Grams,” Mom said to me. “Why don’t you join us?”

So what could I say? No? “I’ll be over in a minute.”

“You have a really nice mom,” Patti said, watching her make her way to the table behind Grams.

“Peachy sweet,” I agreed.

“It must be hard for her, living with your grandmother.”

Unbelievable! Talk about having no people perception skills!

“Oh, look,” Holly piped up and said. “A Celtic band is setting up.”

Sure enough, I saw fiddles, guitars, and an accordion.

My two bodyguards vanished into the crowd, leaving me to fend for myself. Didn’t they know my mother was harmful to my health? In spite of that, I made my way over to her table.

Where, I noticed right away, she was sharing the table with Jackson Davis, who was the county medical examiner. Suddenly, I really wanted to sit at that table.

Jackson was a good-looking guy in his mid- to late forties, with thick dark eyebrows, the kind that formed one continuous line across his forehead, and a five o’clock shadow, no matter what time of day. He’d lived in the area long enough to know our ways, but he’d been born and raised in Chicago, making him a permanent outsider right along with Patti Dwyre. The difference between the two of them was he didn’t seem to mind at all and didn’t go out of his way to offend people by trying to overcompensate.

Could it be that medical examiners have outcast personalities to begin with? Jackson had what Carrie Ann accurately described as “the suckiest job in the world.” He dealt in graphic gore, so he needed a strong stomach and a thick hide. And when it came to murder, he had to understand criminals, combine pieces to create a whole, and draw valid conclusions. The medical examiner was the first person a murderer had to fool.