Candy Apple Dead (11 page)

I’d just finished arranging the candies on two of Aunt Grace’s antique crystal dishes when Meena Driggs, this year’s book club president, marched through the front door. Meena’s probably in her late fifties, short, dark-haired and serious-faced. She’s one of those super-organized people who seems to get everything done with time to spare, and she has no patience with people who can’t keep up. I fell into that category this morning, based on the disapproving glance she swept across the small room on the east side of the building.

Back in the early days, that room was the original holding cell for the territorial jail. Rumor has it that a few famous visitors passed time in there, but I don’t know how true that is.

With its bare brick walls and uneven flagstone floor, the room has a lot of old-fashioned charm. The bars on the windows are gone, and sunlight streams into the room now through high, wide windows. It’s just large enough to hold a small table and a dozen folding chairs, and still leave room for customers to browse. Some year, when I have enough money, I’d like to open up a wall and create an outdoor seating area in the shade of the aspen trees.

But first, I needed to set up the room for this morning’s meeting.

“You’re running behind?” Meena asked, her thin mouth turned down in a scowl.

“Only a few minutes. I’ll have everything set up before the others get here.”

I trotted off to the supply cupboard, pulled out a tablecloth and the silver tray for the coffee service, then scrounged napkins and spoons from the drawer. By the time I carried everything back to the meeting room, Meena had already dragged a few chairs into a semicircle and stood surveying her handiwork. “This had better not be a waste of time.”

Smiling encouragement, I deposited the things I held on a chair and smoothed the cloth over the table. “Of course it won’t be. Why are you even worried about that?”

Meena centered the tray on the table and shot me a look. “Surely you’ve noticed how people have been acting since the fire. Everyone’s racing around like chickens with their heads cut off. Nobody seems to be able to focus on anything.”

“That’s because there’s been a murder,” an imperial sounding voice announced from the doorway. I turned to find Nicolette Wilkes, tall, blonde, and leggy, watching us. She shrugged out of her full-length suit jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair as if it hadn’t cost more money than I’ll make this quarter. “People are always fascinated by scandal, Meena. Surely you know that. And especially something like this ...”

Meena snorted disapproval and wiggled impatient fingers at me for the silverware. “I don’t know what’s so fascinating about it. It seems pretty obvious what happened.”

I looked up from the halfhearted effort I was making at folding napkins. “Oh? What do you think happened?”

“What else? Brandon set the fire and got caught in it.”

Nicolette’s laugh bounced around the empty room. “You’d
like
to think it happened that way. It would appeal to your sense of order, and everything could be tidied up and fit into a neat little box. But what if that’s
not
what happened? What if somebody else set the fire?”

“Don’t be silly,” Meena scoffed. “Who else would?”

I steeled myself, either for the jealous-lover explanation or the mention of Wyatt’s name, but Nicolette didn’t suggest either one. “Maybe that girl he had working over there. She’s an odd one, if you ask me.”

“Chelsea?” Her name popped out before I could stop it.

Nicolette nodded. “Don’t you think she’s a little strange?”

Meena snatched the napkins out of my hand and began folding them herself. “She’s not strange, she’s just young. Young and impressionable.”

“Oh, please! She’s spooky, that’s what she is.” Nicolette draped herself artfully in a folding chair and slipped a praline from the candy dish. She popped it into her mouth and closed her eyes briefly in appreciation. “I don’t know why Brandon let her stay around,” she said. “I’m not sure she ever actually
did
anything around there.”

“I’m sure she did plenty,” Meena said with a scowl at the uneven number of pralines. “And she’s hardly the first person I’d suspect of murder. She seemed quite loyal to Brandon, if you ask me.”

I made a mental note to replenish the praline supply before the rest of the group arrived. “So who would you suspect?”

“Me?” Meena glanced up sharply, almost surprised by the question.

The bell over the door tinkled, and a heavyset blond man stepped inside. I acknowledged his presence, but I wanted to hear the rest of the conversation, so I didn’t rush off to help him.

“I told you.” Meena gave the last napkin a twitch. “It must have been Brandon who set the fire. And if he didn’t do it, then I don’t know who. It’s hard to believe anyone from Paradise could have done such a thing.”

“Well, you just might have to believe it,” Nicolette said, her beautiful face smug. “Life doesn’t always line up in neat little rows, Meena. Sometimes it gets messy.”

“I’m well aware of that, and I resent your tone. The point I’m trying to make is that Brandon was an unknown quantity. We don’t have any idea what made him tick, now do we?”

The bell jangled again, this time to signal the arrival of several book club members, including Rachel Summers, who breezed inside wearing a pair of brilliant turquoise pants and a matching sweater. Bangles jingled on both wrists, and rings of various sizes winked from her fingers. If she didn’t get noticed, it certainly wouldn’t be her fault.

Deciding I’d dawdled long enough, I scurried off to finish making coffee while the ladies of the club settled in and my lone male customer strolled slowly up and down the aisles. I was just pouring the last of the coffee into a carafe when I heard a footstep and looked up to find Rachel watching me.

“I guess Meena probably sent you to find out where this was?” I said with a nod toward the tray.

“I volunteered.” Rachel glanced over her shoulder, then leaned across the counter and lowered her voice to a near-whisper. “I feel terrible about what I said yesterday. I had no idea—”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, forcing a smile I didn’t feel. “Neither of us had any idea what really happened.”

Rachel nodded gratefully, but the clouds didn’t leave her eyes. “How’s Wyatt? Have you seen him?”

The question made my blood run cold. “I saw him last night. Why?”

“I’ve heard that the police suspect him of starting the fire.”

“And you believe it?”

Her gaze dropped to her fingertips, and the cold water in my veins turn to ice.

“Come on, Rachel. You’ve known Wyatt since you were kids. You know he’s not violent.”

“I don’t know what to believe. All I
do
know is that the police have been asking a lot of questions about him.”

“What kinds of questions?”

“Whether or not I saw him the night of the murder. Whether or not I ever heard him threaten Brandon. I don’t know what to tell them, Abby. I can’t believe Wyatt would do something like this, but I don’t want to get myself in any trouble.”

I started to tell her that trouble isn’t contagious but stopped myself. Maybe it is. “Questions don’t mean he’s guilty,” I said. “What did you tell them?”

She watched a couple stroll past on the sidewalk before muttering, “I don’t know if I should tell you.”

“I think Wyatt has the right to know what’s being said about him, don’t you?”

“I don’t know.”

“What if you were being accused of something you didn’t do? Wouldn’t you want to know what people were saying so you could defend yourself?”

Rachel nodded slowly, but I could tell she still wasn’t convinced.

But that only made me more determined to get answers. I stole a glance at my meandering customer, decided he was fine on his own for a while longer, and let myself out from behind the counter so I could talk to Rachel face-to-face. “You might as well just tell me what you said to the police. You know I’m not going to leave you alone until you do.”

“What could I tell them?” she asked grudgingly. “I don’t know anything.”

“Maybe that’s because there’s nothing to tell.”

Rachel’s gaze narrowed even further. “Well, of course
you’d
feel that way. You always have thought that the sun rose and set on Wyatt.”

“He’s my big brother. What can I say?”

Laughter erupted from the meeting room and Rachel reached instinctively for the coffee tray. “Look, you’re right. I
have
known Wyatt forever. And yes, it’s hard to believe that he could do something like this. But
somebody
killed Brandon, and I don’t know who else it could have been.”

“So Wyatt’s guilty by default? Meanwhile, whoever really did this is wandering around the streets of Paradise without a care in the world.”

Rachel’s lips thinned. “I didn’t say Wyatt was guilty by default, but he hated Brandon. Everybody knows that.”

I wanted to say that I didn’t, but that wouldn’t have been entirely true. “Do you know what happened to make Wyatt hate Brandon?”

She pulled the tray toward her, and I watched as her eyes went blank. “Why don’t you ask Wyatt?”

“I have. He’s not talking. Please, Rachel. We’re talking about my brother. I need to help him if I can.”

Rachel rolled her eyes, but I sensed her weakening. “I’m not even sure I know the whole story.”

“Then tell me what you do know.”

She hesitated a moment more, then put down the tray and folded her arms in front of her. “I don’t know much, but it started about the time Brandon came to town. Wyatt and a few others were trying to bring in a gun show, and Brandon stopped it. I think Wyatt felt as if he’d been publicly humiliated, but Brandon didn’t care. The whole thing has just sort of snowballed since then.” Rachel broke off with a shake of her head and stared into a jar filled with jawbreakers to avoid looking at me. “Look, I know he’s your brother and everything, and it’s not as if I think he did it in cold blood. But you know what a hothead he is.”

“A hothead?
Wyatt
?”

“Have you forgotten what he did to Tommy Jerrick at Homecoming?”

“That was
thirty years
ago.”

“Memories last a long time. But that’s not the only thing. You haven’t been around. You don’t know what he’s like. He’s . . . well, he’s got an attitude, Abby. I’m sorry, but he does.”

“There’s a big difference between having an attitude and committing cold-blooded murder.”

“I know that, but he has a history. He got so upset with Darren Broadbent over some rusty old cars in that field out by Wyatt’s place, Darren had to call the cops. And you know how he is with Elizabeth. I mean, there are times when I actually feel sorry for her.”

“Sorry? For
Elizabeth
? That’s utterly ridiculous. Wyatt adores her.”

Rachel’s lips curved, but there was no warmth in her smile. “Wyatt is extremely jealous of her, I know that. He can’t stand it when she goes anywhere or does anything without him.”

I’ve never even seen a hint of jealousy from Wyatt, but then I’ve only really seen them together on holidays and my few rare visits home. A seed of doubt took root, but I shook it off. Though I couldn’t imagine it of Elizabeth, if she
was
screwing around on him, maybe Wyatt had good reason to be jealous. Lord knows I’d been madder than a wet hen when I found out about Roger’s affair.

“Wyatt doesn’t try to restrict Elizabeth’s activities,” I said, trying to reason through my confusion. “She’s involved in just about everything.”

The blond man left the store, and I had one brief pang of guilt for ignoring him. But my need to hear what Rachel had to say was a lot stronger.

“Elizabeth’s a strong woman,” Rachel agreed, “but even she can’t stand up against it forever. I’m not sure I could put up with everything she does from Wyatt.”

I was beginning to feel as if I’d stepped into an alternate universe, but Rachel looked so serious, I couldn’t just dismiss what she was saying. “So tell me about these jealous episodes of his. What has he done? What has he said? I need specifics, Rachel, not just vague accusations.”

Rachel gave that some thought. Just when I’d about convinced myself she was making up the whole thing, she spoke again. “Well, there was one time when we were getting ready for a church supper. Wyatt came storming into the gymnasium looking like he was about ready to explode. He walked right up to Elizabeth, grabbed her by the arm, and dragged her out of there like a rag doll.”

Unbelievable. And yet . . . “Do you know why?”

Rachel’s brows beetled over her nose. “Does it matter why? There’s no excuse for treating a woman like that.”

“I never said there was,” I assured her quickly. “I just wondered if you knew what prompted it. I’m assuming he had a reason, right or wrong.”

“If he did, Elizabeth didn’t tell me what it was. She came back inside about ten minutes later and tried to act like nothing had ever happened.”

“And you didn’t ask her?”

“It was none of my business.”

Right
. “So was that the only time?”

Her lips pursed so tightly, tiny lines formed around them. “Of course not. She’s dropped out of the book club, and she’s stopped scrapbooking—and not because she’s not interested, either. I don’t know what’s going on with Wyatt lately, but you’re probably the only person in town who doesn’t think he’s at least capable of doing Brandon in.”

Exhibiting the worst possible timing in the world, Meena stepped into the doorway and scowled at both of us. “Do you mind, Rachel? Some of us have places to be when we’re through here.”

Rachel jumped about a foot and dragged the tray off the counter. “I need to go.” She started across the room, then checked herself and made eye contact with me. “Be careful, okay Abby? Don’t let Wyatt drag you into this.”

But Rachel’s warning came too late. I was already in the middle, and I’d stay there as long as my brother was suspected of murder.