Taking the Fall (18 page)

“Okay … ” I said. “Thanks.” What on earth did that mean?

27

“He knows something about my brush!” Blythe whispered fiercely as we waved good-bye to Will Riggins. This time, we’d accepted his one-man police escort out of the station and a ride back to our place.

“Yes, he does. But let’s leave it to the police now, alright?” While I answered, we ran through the studio parking lot, to the back door. I could see the news van racing down the street.

Blythe shut the studio door behind us and laughed, a light, easy laugh. “You sound like me.”

“What’s the world coming to?”

“I don’t know about the world, but our day started out a disaster, and now it’s shaped up pretty good. Let’s make some dinner and celebrate our freedom.”

The blip-blip of a police siren being briefly turned on startled me. We both ran to the studio window, to see Riggins pulling over the Channel Three crew.

“He’s giving them a ticket!” Blythe laughed again.

“Yes!” I knew I was grinning from ear-to-ear, but I didn’t try to suppress it. Right now I didn’t feel the need to tamp down any approval of Will Riggins.

When we were done watching Riggins order Dan Deering, who’d tried to get out of the waylaid van with his cameraman and hoof it over to the studio, to stay put, we went upstairs and fixed up some tacos with rice and beans, then settled down at the kitchen table to eat.

Blythe topped her tacos with sour cream, then handed me the spoon. “Poor Leo,” she said softly.
 

“Poor Leo,” I agreed. “At least he has a dad somewhere.” I took a bite of taco.

Blythe dabbed her mouth with a napkin. Taco juice dripped down the back of her hand. “True. I’ll bet Sammi’s going to miss him, though.”

“Maybe Sammi wants to learn judo,” I said. I don’t know where that came from. The kid had tried to blackmail me. And she was a screamer and a crier. But she had a loyal streak. She had a soft spot for little Leo. She had a good heart. And her life must be pretty desperate if she’d made friends with Stacey Goode.

We spent the next morning in the apartment, unpacking, peeking through the blinds every now and then to make sure the media hadn’t come back. I’d gotten some calls requesting my story on being falsely accused, and a couple of people had come and rung the bell downstairs, but no one was camped outside the former little Swans Ballet School anymore. They’d shifted their focus to Stacey Goode, and on the rumor she was involved with a local police officer. That story seemed to be just as tantalizing to them as the Olympian-and-sister-as-murderers angle.

In my quest to find out more about him, I’d subscribed to the local news site Ellison Baxter had written for, along with all its social media accounts. My phone alerted me that there was an update.

“What is it?” Blythe said as she unwrapped a picture frame.

“They finally posted an obituary for Ellison Baxter. His mother and sister live in Florida. They’re having a memorial service here on Wednesday. It doesn’t say anything about burial. I wonder if they’re taking him to Florida?”

“Or maybe the police aren’t done with his body yet.”

I shrugged. I didn’t like that idea. I just wanted this whole thing to be settled and over.

By noon, we’d had enough of unpacking, and we felt safe enough to go downstairs and get to work on finalizing our set-up in the dojo. We tipped the first rolled-up mat over, undid the straps, and gave it a shove. After we unrolled it, we each took an end and slid it flush against the wall. We followed with the next roll and the next. Once we had them all out, I found the mat tape and scissors. The tape would keep the strips of mat from sliding apart once people started running around and doing judo on them. Mats with velcro were available now, and they were really nice, the way they went together, no tape—and the constant need to replace it—necessary. But new mats were not in our budget. These, I’d bought used. About half of them, I’d acquired years ago, to put down in my garage in case I wanted to practice at home. The other half, I’d bought from a friend who was upgrading his to velcro. There was definitely room to grow in the studio, room for more mats, but we had a good-sized area to get started.

I was kneeling on the mats, pressing a strip of clear mat tape firmly in place, when someone rang the front bell. Blythe jumped and dropped the scissors. I turned to the window, and there was a little face pressed against the glass—hazel eyes topped with a messy mop of strawberry-blond hair. A small, freckled nose that looked red from blowing. Leo! Sammi held his hand and stood in front of the glass double doors.

Blythe hurried over and let them in. When I joined her, Leo crossed his arms and stared me down, much as he had in the parking lot the day we arrived.

“What’s going on, Sammi?” Blythe said. “Shouldn’t you two be in school?”

“My mom let me stay home to take care of Leo until his Dad gets here. Leo’s taking a little break from school today,” Sammi said. Then she muttered, “Not that she cares.”

Who could blame the kid for not feeling up to school, when his mom had just been arrested for murder?

Sammi nudged Leo, then bent to whisper in his ear. “Say you’re sorry for being mean.”

Leo’s chin jutted out. He looked up at me with tear-reddened eyes. “If I say I’m sorry, will you help me get my mom back?”

I wondered if Leo knew his mom had bashed me in the back of the head and left me lying unconscious in an alley—well, not quite an alley, but you get the picture.

“It’s in the hands of the police now, Leo,” I told him as gently as I could.

“But the police have the wrong person!”

I exchanged a look with Blythe. Not this again.

“Listen! You have to listen. There’s more than what I told you before. Leo knows more.”

Leo looked hesitantly from Sammi to us. Everyone was quiet for a moment. Finally, he said, “I heard her promising. There was a safety pozut box. She promised not to tell about the box or the key.”

“Who promised?” Blythe said.

“My mom. She promised Eric.”

“Do you know what was in the box?”

“Some kinda secrets.”

“And she knew where the key was?”

Leo nodded vigorously. “The reporter guy had it. It was his pozut box. I don’t know where the box was, but he had the key, and Eric wanted it.”

Sammi gave Leo a squeeze. She looked up at us proudly, expectantly. “See? Leo heard Stacey promising Uncle Eric she’d never tell about that box. Eric knew Ellison had the key hidden somewhere in his house. I’m sure it had Eric’s secrets in it. Don’t you see? That’s why Eric killed him. It had to be Eric. Maybe he had secrets on Officer Riggins, too! Maybe that’s why they’re all in it together, and making Stacey take the fall for it!”

If that was true, Stacey was still involved. Why else would she frame me? Would Stacey tell Riggins and the Chief about the key? Surely she would, if it would get her back to her little boy. Unless … unless Sammi was right, and the whole department, including Riggins, was determined to keep those secrets locked away. Even if it meant locking a somewhat innocent mother away.

Blythe said, “I think this is something you should tell the police, Sammi.”

“When are you going to get it? That’s what you said last time, and Stacey’s in jail and Uncle Eric is free! I told you we couldn’t trust Officer Riggins!”

We could trust Riggins, couldn’t we? Or was it just that I desperately wanted to? That once again, I was being fooled by a pretty face?

“Stacey gave me your phone and told me to keep it because it had pictures on it you were going to use against her and and she didn’t want the police to find out she had it. She trusted me. But when I found out you two were probably going to go to jail for what Eric did, I had to help you. And now Stacey’s going to pay for what he did instead. It’s not fair! I was just trying to do the right thing!”

Leo ran at me, fists balled up. “I wish you never came here! I want you to go away. It’s all your fault!” Sammi grabbed him under the arms and hauled him toward the door. He dragged his heels so hard, I expected to see skid marks on the hardwood floors.

“We’ll do what we can, won’t we, Brenna?” Blythe said.

“We want the police to find out the truth, Sammi. We’ll think about what you told us and see if there’s anything we can do.”

“Without going to the police?” Sammi said.

Neither of us answered. That was not satisfactory for Sammi. The glass door rattled shut behind her and Leo so loud, I was surprised it didn’t shatter.

Blythe turned to me. “How would Eric know about the key? Would Ellison be that stupid, to tell him about it?”

“Stacey! Maybe that’s why Eric was with her in the first place. To get close to her and get information out of her. Maybe Ellison bragged about it to Stacey when they were an item, before she even moved here. He never imagined she’d be part of Bonney Bay.”

“If those kids are right, then we helped an innocent woman land in jail,” Blythe said.

“She’s not innocent,” I corrected. “She’s just not guilty of
murder
. And if those kids are right, we can’t trust anyone in the Bonney Bay Police Department.”

I walked back over to the mats and picked up the abandoned roll of tape. I held the cardboard roll on the inside, and Blythe walked backward, pulling the tape out. We secured the last mat with the tape, and cut the end from the roll.

I sat back on the mat. “Even if Stacey did kill Ellison, don’t you want to know what Eric’s secret is? What Ellison knew about his past? If his secret would keep him from being an FBI agent, maybe he shouldn’t be a cop either.”

“True. Even if Eric didn’t kill Ellison and take the key, he was part of the murder investigation at the beginning. He could’ve found the key, taken it, and not told anyone.”

“I don’t know if I’m up for trying to break into Eric’s house yet. I just got cleared of that crime!”

“Oh, no! We can’t do that. For all we know, he never even found it, and it’s still hidden in Ellison’s house somewhere.”

“That’s it!”

“No! Brenna, no!”

“His next of kin will probably be here soon to take his things. This could be the only chance to find out the truth.”

28

We parked a couple blocks from Ellison’s house—a tiny 1940s bungalow—and slipped around the side. This kind of snooping was beginning to feel familiar. There was barely any space between the six-foot cedar-look fence and the rhododendrons. They were badly in need of a trim. I guess Ellison was more into digging into people’s lives and blackmailing them than doing yard work. I tried the only window within reach and found it securely locked.

“Why don’t we just try the door?” Blythe said.

“The door?”

“Then maybe we won’t have to break in.” Blythe smiled at me hopefully. On the one hand, I knew it was just wishful thinking on her part. My sister wanted no more of this law-breaking. On the other hand, the last people in here were the Bonney Bay Police. Perhaps not the brightest bulbs in law enforcement, with the possible exception of Riggins …

“Alright.” I darted around the rhododendron and into the shadows of the front stoop, with Blythe right behind me. I tried the knob, and—it turned! I looked over my shoulder at Blythe, wide-eyed at our luck.

She made a fist and did a victory gesture with a silent,
“Yes!”

We let ourselves in. The floors were covered with old shag carpet. There was probably beautiful hardwood underneath, just waiting for some one like Will Riggins to uncover it and restore it to its former glory.

We began searching the cramped downstairs, starting with the tiny kitchen. When we found no keys there, we headed to the living room.

“Let’s split up. I’ll go upstairs and take the bedroom.” For some reason, I didn’t want Blythe in Ellison’s bedroom, even though the poor man was dead and gone.
Especially
since he was dead. Wasn’t that where he’d been killed, in the bedroom? I couldn’t remember if that piece of information had ever been revealed.

I checked Ellison’s dresser, feeling increasingly like an intruder, more and more uncomfortable, as I carefully sifted through stacks of rumpled clothes. Had Ellison been sloppy with his laundry, or had the police left it like this after their search? What exactly did I expect to find that the police hadn’t? This just felt so wrong. But if I didn’t look, I’d always wonder. Who had killed Ellison? What had Eric done? And—did Will Riggins have anything to do with it? Had he helped cover it up? Was I attracted to not just a jerk, but a criminal this time?

I left the dresser and moved on to the night stand. Like much of the furniture, it was old, stained a dark cherry, and oddly feminine. Old lady-ish. I wondered if Ellison had bought the house furnished. Or maybe it was a furnished rental.

I pulled open the top drawer, and I stopped cold.

The drawer was lined with black velvety fabric. On top of the fabric, women’s items were arranged in several perfect rows. They were not old lady items. I tried to tell myself these were his current mistress’s things, but something about them made the hair on the back of my neck prick up. Maybe it was the way each lipstick, comb, brush or hair clip was set so perfectly. It reminded me of something—of old-fashioned insect specimens pinned to a board.

The brushes! There were two of them, each with very different hair caught around their bristles. This was not simply a drawer filled with a woman’s things, or even several different women’s things. It was a collection. Had Blythe’s hairbrush been part of this collection? Had all of these women left these things here, or had Ellison taken them? Ellison certainly would’ve had the opportunity to take Blythe’s brush.

This must be what Riggins had found, what had led him to believe that, absent any other evidence, Blythe likely had nothing to do with that brush being used to kill Ellison. Had the mysterious new girlfriend Amy the grocery store clerk had told us about found it here? Had she freaked out and killed him out of jealousy? Or had she discovered the whole collection and gone crazy with disgust—or even fear? I mean, what a creep!

Should I tell Blythe what I’d found? Maybe not. I like being right as much as anyone. Well, actually, more than almost anyone. But this would really creep her out. I moved to shut the drawer, and one of the lipsticks rolled a little. The fabric was wrinkled a bit underneath it. No, not wrinkled. Raised up. I ran my finger over it, and felt the shape of something small, flat, and hard. I felt around the edge of the fabric. It lifted easily. I slid my fingers just far enough underneath to touch the strange object. My heart pitter-pattered. It was definitely metal, and definitely a key. I pulled it out and held it up in triumph.