Murder in the Milk Case (11 page)

“No. Let’s go sit down.”

In the family room, he dropped onto the couch and pulled me next to him, but I couldn’t enjoy his touch. I knew I had to talk to him about Russ.

“This has been a bad couple of weeks.” He tightened his arm around me. “Tell me what happened.”

I explained how I’d discovered the moving doorknob and the ensuing events. When I was done, I twisted my hands in my lap. “Have you talked to Detective Scott?”

“Ye–e–s.” He drew the vowel out, extending the length of the word. “Why?”

“Did he tell you. . .everything?” My voice faltered. Max sat very still. “What do you mean by ‘everything’?”

I didn’t look at him. “Like. . .everything?”

He took my chin and lifted, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Do you mean everything as in what you wanted to talk to me about?”

I nodded, swallowed, and blinked back tears.

He brushed hair from my face. “Trish, what is it?”

I gulped and couldn’t seem to catch my breath. “Give me a second, okay?” I sat back on the couch and the pillow over the notebook shifted. I tried to shove it out of the way, but Max had already seen it. “Are you trying to hide that?’

I picked it up. “Well. . .”

He snatched it from my hands and flipped it open. “You’re still making notes?” he asked, after an interminable silence. “Why?”

I had a catch in my throat that made talking hard. “Because I have to figure it all out. That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

“Solving Jim Bob’s murder is Detective Eric Scott’s job, not yours.” Max enunciated each word. “He’s the one with the badge and the gun.”

“Yes, but. . .I have to solve this. Jim Bob was trying to blackmail me.”

Max’s head jerked, and his eyes widened. “What?”

“I’m involved in this up to my eyeteeth. I have to figure things out for me and for our family. I don’t want to go to jail. I don’t want to lose you.” Once I started, the words tumbled out before I could think.

“What are you talking about?” He stared at me like I had the proverbial two heads.

The rapid thumping of my heart and a loud roar in my skull made it hard to talk. Max’s face wavered in front of me, but I wasn’t sure if it was from tears or if I was about to pass out.

“Trish?”

“Russ might have stolen the stop sign where Lindsey was killed,” I whispered.

His mouth hung open for just a moment, then he blinked. “What did you say?”

I cleared my throat and tried to speak louder. “Eight years ago there was a rash of road sign thefts. Russ might have been involved in that. He. . .he might have taken the one where Lindsey was killed. That’s what Jim Bob was trying to blackmail me about.”

Max stared at me and didn’t move. “And you didn’t see fit to tell me this before? Trish, what were you thinking?”

His gaze felt like a knife slicing through me. That question was one my mother asked me incessantly when I was young. According to her, I never thought anything through.

“And how would Jim Bob know exactly what sign Russ took?”

Before I could answer that logical question, the phone rang. I wanted to throw it across the room.

“Let me check and see who that is.” He grabbed the receiver from the end table.

“The high school,” he said, staring at me as he pushed the button to answer. “Hello.” His eyes lost their focus. “No, we weren’t aware of that.” He took a deep breath. “She did what?” He listened awhile longer, lips narrowing and nostrils flaring. “Yes, I understand. Thank you.”

When he hung up, his cheeks were drawn. “That was Karen’s principal. She skipped school today. Apparently, she called the attendance office this morning pretending to be you and told them she wouldn’t be there. Someone saw her and Julie out in the woods near the high school and the library and reported them. I have to go pick her up.” He got to his feet and looked down at me. “This really hasn’t been a good couple of weeks.”

That was an understatement.

Chapter Twelve

Breakfast on Wednesday morning was tense. Max and I were treading around each other like two wary dogs. He was angry that I hadn’t told him right away about Russ, the stop sign, and Jim Bob’s threats. He asked me for time to digest what I’d told him before we discussed it at length again. I had to respect that, but I felt like I was dying inside.

He had also grounded Karen from outside social activities for two weeks, and she let us know how unhappy she was by a variety of methods, including screaming and yelling. She should have been grateful to me. I managed to talk her father into allowing her phone privileges, as well as study time at the library.

She never gave him a reasonable explanation for why she skipped school. It might have been nothing more than teenage rebellion, just like Julie’s talk of running way might have been the outward expression of a girl angry that her parents had split up, but I had my doubts.

“Trish, did you remember I have meetings in Baltimore today?” Max asked over his shoulder as he opened the door to the garage to leave.

“Yes,” I said, staring at his back.

He turned around. “Can you pick up my suit from the cleaners?”

“Yes.”

Even though he had hugged me and kissed me good- bye, I still felt bereft. I didn’t realize I was twisting my hands in front of me until he glanced down.

He put his briefcase on the floor, came over to stand in front of me, and put his hands on my shoulders. “Honey, what you told me hasn’t changed the fact that I love you. Forever and always. But I have some things to work through, plus there’s a whole lot to consider. First, we need to know if it’s true.”

I stared up at him. He had dark circles under his eyes. He hadn’t slept any better than I had.

He pushed a piece of hair from my face. “Listen, I hate to ask you this, given everything that’s going on, but could you talk to Julie’s mom? See if she has any idea what’s going on with the girls?”

I nodded. Right now I’d do anything he asked me, just to make him happy again.

“Thank you,” he said. “Maybe it’ll help us.”

I realized he felt as ineffectual in dealing with Karen as I did, but for different reasons. He was a guy and didn’t understand. I had once been a fifteen-year-old girl. I did understand. I was also her stepmother, and that, I suspected, had become a problem for her. And now there was the potential for things to get even worse.

But there was no time to think. Before I left to take the little kids to school and go to work, I called Lee Ann again and finally reached her. She sounded out of breath. She agreed to meet me that night at Bo’s Burger Barn.

“Hi, Mrs. C.,” Shirl said when I arrived at work. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I fibbed.

“I made coffee.”

“I’m trying to quit.” I sifted through yesterday’s mail, pulling out bills to pay.

“What?” She stared at me. “You quit drinking coffee? I can’t believe that.”

“Believe it,” I muttered. “My head does.” Caffeine withdrawal isn’t pleasant, but after serious consideration, I had come to the conclusion that coffee, in addition to Jim Bob’s murder, contributed to my stomach ailment.

“Say, did you know that Peggy Nichols has been dragged down to the sheriff’s office almost as many times as you have?” Shirl asked.

I gazed at her in surprise. “Why?”

She shrugged. “No clue. I just heard it from someone who was here this morning.” She glanced at her desk where she kept her notepad. “Listen, some guy from the paper called. Said he’s coming by to interview you.”

I gritted my teeth. “Was his name Carey Snook?”

She nodded.

“I don’t want to talk to him.” I started for my office. I was in no mood to deal with anybody today, especially a nosy reporter.

“I’m sorry. He hung up before I could get a number to call him back. Caller ID said it was unlisted.”

“Not a problem,” I hollered from my desk. “I’ll take care of it.”

I would do so by calling Carey at the newspaper office and telling him to quit bugging me, but when I asked for Carey Snook, I was informed that no one by that name worked there. Or had ever worked there.

Why in the world would someone set up an appointment with me and lie about who he was? I could reach only one conclusion—I was about to have a meeting with a fake.

While I waited for him to arrive, I got a phone call from my mother-in-law. She began by inquiring about my health, sounding solicitous, but in reality she just wanted to let me know she’d heard about my latest escapades and didn’t think my behavior was suitable for the wife of someone like Max. For an insane moment, I considered informing her about everything going on. However, the satisfaction of listening to her shriek now wouldn’t be worth the price I’d have to pay later.

I paced my office and tried to pray but felt, as my mother would say, the heavens were brass. By the time I saw Mr. Counterfeit Reporter pull into the parking lot, I was in a state.

“Send Mr. Snook into the conference room when he gets inside,” I growled as I stomped through the front office.

Standing at the copier, Shirl watched me with raised brows. “Guess I shouldn’t offer him anything to drink?”

“No.” I must have gestured wildly because she took a step away from me. I didn’t apologize, just went on into the conference room to wait.

Shortly after, she brought Carey Snook to the door. “Here he is,” she announced and went back to her desk, where she plopped in her chair and rolled it to a place where she could see and hear everything.

“Mr. Snook, is it?” I said in greeting.

“Yes ma’am. Thank you for meeting with me.” His smile was oily, like a bad used-car salesman. I really disliked his hair. Today he wore big, black glasses.

His eyes narrowed. “I want to talk about Jim Bob. Like I said the other day, everyone’s got secrets. I rather thought you might want to talk to me.”

That’s when it hit me. Carey Snook somehow knew about me and Jim Bob. I wondered how.

Exhaustion and the conversation with my mother- in-law were to blame for my reaction. I walked over to the door and edged it shut so Shirl couldn’t see us. I turned back to him. “Snook. Is that German?”

Carey frowned. I’d caught him off guard.

I smiled. “It’s quite unusual. I suppose it’s your real name?”

“Of course,” he said.

I shook my head. “Those silly people at the paper. I called them. They’ve never heard of you.”

He raised his chin. “I’m a freelancer.”

“No, you’re not.” I put my hands on my hips. “You’re lying.”

The corners of his mouth turned up. “I’m lying?” The bell over the front door rang. I studied the man who was studying me, too angry to be afraid. He scratched his head, and I noticed that his hair looked a little off-kilter.

I pointed at it. “Is that a hairpiece?” I moved closer to him. “It is. You don’t even have your own hair. That’s a good thing for you because it’s very ugly.” My voice grew louder. “Who are you, anyway?”

Shirl peered around the conference room door. “You okay, Mrs. C.?”

“Yes, but Carey Snook is leaving right now.” I was itching to grab at the mop on his head just to see if it came off.

After the briefest pause, he grinned. “You have a good day, Mrs. Cunningham.” He lowered his voice so only I could hear him. “I’m sure you’ll reconsider talking to me before I talk to your husband’s family. I’d rather hear the whole story from you.”

He brushed past me, knocking me off balance. I grasped the door frame and watched him saunter out the front door.

Shirl’s gaze followed him until he disappeared, then she turned to me. “You okay, Mrs. C.?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.” I went out to where she stood and saw Hank, one of our longtime customers, leaning against the counter. When I was in high school, he’d been one of my teachers. I made his life rough for a year. Now he was retired from that and had become a dispatcher for the sheriff’s office. Seems like a dispatcher would be the harder job. Then again, dealing with students like me for years might make anything else seem like a piece of cake.

Shirl dropped into her chair. “What was that all about?”

I forced a laugh. “I really couldn’t tell you. I’m not sure. He calls himself Carey Snook, and he says he’s a reporter. But he doesn’t work at the paper, and he wears a hairpiece.”

Hank stared at me in amazement. “I haven’t heard about you trying to attack anyone like that since you’ve grown up.”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” I said impatiently, knowing how this would play out with the rumor mill. “I didn’t attack him.”

Hank was shaking his head. “You know what they say—‘still waters run deep.’ You can’t change Mother Nature.” Had Hank been to platitude school with my mother?

“Whatever.” I walked past the two of them and into my office where I plopped in a chair and put my head in my hands. Shirl was talking loud enough for me to hear her.

“You know,” she said, “it seems like things around here are just going to you-know-where.”

I had to agree.

“I’ll be just a minute,” I told the kids as I pulled up at the dry cleaner’s. “I have to get your father’s suit.”

Sammie and Charlie babbled at each other in the back. Karen was next to me in the passenger seat, but she might as well have been in the next state. She had ignored me when she got in the car, turning her body so she couldn’t see me. I snatched up my purse and dug around for my wallet.

“Mom,” Charlie said. “I don’t like the way she’s looking at us.”

“Karen, don’t stare at the little kids,” I said as I put my purse on the floor.

“Oh, good grief,” she mumbled.

“Not Karen,” Charlie yelped. “Her. On the sidewalk.”

I glanced out the windshield and met the gaze of my nemesis over whose arm draped several dry cleaning bags. I wondered if the dry cleaners gave Stefanie Jenkins a discount because there was so little of her clothes to clean.

“Mom, do we know her?” Charlie asked. “I’m sure—”

“Yes, we know her. It’s Mrs. Jenkins. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Charlie was mumbling as I shut the door to the van.

“Trish!” Stefanie greeted me like an old friend. She wore tight, black pants with a tight, cropped, florescent-orange knit shirt that showed a great deal of belly. No one should look good in a color like that, but she managed to. Her nails were a darker shade of the same color and matched her lipstick. How did she coordinate everything?

“Hello, Stefanie.” I was still shaken up from my run-in with the hairpiece-wearing liar and really didn’t feel like dealing with Miss Fancy-Pants.

“Oh, please call me Steffie,” she gushed. “I just know we can be good friends.”

Not in a million years.

“What can I do for you?” I asked.

She gave me a bright smile. “I’m hoping you can convince Maxwell to let me into my storage unit.”

I was astounded by her audacity. “I can’t do that. It’s not yours.”

“I just thought you’d have some”—she winked— “powers of persuasion. Your husband is obviously crazy about you.”

I was glad that was obvious. “I’m sorry, Steffie. What you’re asking is illegal.”

I watched anger flash in her eyes, then she forced a smile. “No one has to know. Just leave me the key somewhere. It’ll be our secret.”