Candy Apple Dead (17 page)

It was nearly seven o’clock when I left the Playhouse
, frustrated by my conversation with Vonetta and several hundred dollars deeper in debt. Vonetta
could
be wrong about Chelsea, but she’s such a great judge of character I had trouble patching the holes she’d punched in my theory.

The rich aromas of grilling beef spilled onto the street from the Timberline Grill next door, making my stomach clench and reminding me that I’d skipped lunch. Since it was already dark, I gave up on my stroll past Man About Town and decided to take care of my hunger pangs instead.

I grabbed a Whopper, fries, and a Diet Coke at Burger King and carried everything back to my apartment. While I ate, I made a list of Brandon’s friends, their phone numbers and addresses. Surely one of the people on my list would know where to find Chelsea. They might even be able to confirm Vonetta’s story.

Maybe I was grasping at straws, but it felt good to be doing something constructive. Maybe Chelsea wasn’t capable of murder, but she was the only other person who’d floated to the surface as a possible suspect, and I wasn’t ready to let go of her yet.

By the time I polished off the last fry, I had a game plan. First stop, Urban Ross, Brandon’s closest friend. If anybody could identify Iris Quinn’s mystery man, set my mind at ease about Brandon and Elizabeth, or corroborate Vonetta’s story, Urban was the man.

I thought about calling him, but people can hide too much over the phone. I wanted to see his face while we talked.

I tossed the trash, grabbed a sweatshirt, and headed out the door. The storm had moved out of the valley at last, but the temperature had dropped when the sun went down, and I could see my breath as I walked to my car.

After living in Sacramento for so many years, it felt good to be back where I could enjoy the changing seasons, but I’d forgotten how it feels to live with freezing temperatures in September. I cranked up the heat and set off for Paradise’s residential district.

Old maps of Paradise divide the town into distinct sections, with Chinatown running along the creek bed and Swede Alley just above that. Follow Swede Alley half a mile north, and you’ll find yourself surrounded by modest single-family houses and apartment buildings. This is where you’ll find the schools and all the less glamorous businesses no town can survive without.

I drove until I found the address the phone book had listed for Urban Ross and pulled up in front of a small duplex. One side of the lawn was littered with toys. Urban’s black pickup sat in the driveway of the other, right in back of his Harley-Davidson.

I parked on the street and hurried to the door where I could hear the TV playing. The sound died away when I rang the doorbell, and a few seconds later the porch light flared to life.

Urban is short with the solid build of an athlete. His hair has been bleached by the sun through so many seasons most of it is blond, and it hangs to his chin in wild corkscrew curls some women would sell their firstborn to have. He looks like the kind of guy you’d expect to see walking the beach carrying a surfboard, and I’ve never been sure how he earns his money. I just know that he spends most of his time outdoors.

That’s not surprising in a place like Paradise. People flock to these mountains for the sun, the space, and the snow. In the winter, Urban is either on skis or a snowboard. In the summer, he trains on his mountain bike. I’m not sure what he’s training for, but it occupies most of his time.

It took him a few seconds to recognize me and usher me inside out of the cold. Declining the offer of a beer, I made myself reasonably comfortable on a sagging couch while he squatted in front of a bicycle wheel and kept doing whatever he’d been doing before I arrived. “I guess you’re here about Brandon,” he said.

“Yeah. Can we talk?”

“Sure.” He flashed a glance up at me. “Sucks, doesn’t it?”

“To put it mildly.” Now that I was here, I didn’t know quite how to get the conversation rolling. I tried to come up with something natural-sounding, but the smooth segue was simply beyond me. Finally, I blurted, “The police think that either my brother killed him or Brandon set the fire and accidentally killed himself in the process.”

Urban scowled thoughtfully, but he didn’t say a word.

I scooted to the edge of the couch and leaned forward so I could see his face better. “Wyatt didn’t do it. You know that, right?”

Urban seemed almost startled by the question. He blinked up at me in confusion. “I suppose not.”

“You
suppose
not? Come on! You know my brother, don’t you? Whatever issues he had with Brandon, they weren’t serious enough to commit murder over.”

“Your brother wouldn’t be the first man to kill someone over a cheating spouse.”

“Elizabeth wasn’t cheating—not technically.” I caught myself and added, “Unless you know something I don’t.”

With a shake of his head, Urban stretched his legs out in front of him and set one bare foot jiggling. “Relax. I don’t think things ever progressed that far.”

“Then what happened?”

The foot stopped moving. “You think I know?”

“I think you know more about Brandon than anyone else.”

“I don’t know who killed him.”

“But you know if he had enemies, don’t you? You’d know if there was someone who might have wanted him out of the way?”

Urban grabbed his wrench and tightened a bolt. “You know how Brandon was. Always joking around. Never could take him seriously. But there were times . . .” Urban gave the bolt another turn. “He was different the last few days before the fire, y’know? More serious. Don’t you think?”

“I didn’t notice.”

He thought about that for a minute, then shrugged. “Maybe it was just with me.”

“Maybe.” I didn’t like the direction the conversation was taking, but I needed to know the truth. “Did he give you any idea why he was acting strangely?”

“Not really.”

“Not really? Does that mean he did say something?”

“It wasn’t what he said, really. It was the way he acted.” Urban stood, wiping his hands on the seat of his shorts. “He came over for a beer a couple of nights before the fire. He was kind of . . . I don’t know . . . distant, I guess. I’d say something, and he’d respond, but half the time it was like he wasn’t really listening. Don’t know why, though.” He perched on the arm of the couch and smiled down at me sadly. “Wish I did.”

“Me, too.” We fell silent and sat that way for a while. Urban was the first person in days who hadn’t run down Brandon’s character and sitting here with him made me remember the good things about our friendship. When I couldn’t stand the silence any longer, I said, “I talked with someone a couple of days ago who says she saw Brandon having an argument with a strange man shortly before he died. Do you know anything about that?”

Urban looked at me in surprise. “Not a thing. Any idea who it was?”

“The woman I talked to couldn’t see the man’s face. Brandon didn’t mention an argument to you?”

“No, but he wouldn’t have. We’re . . . we
were
friends, but we didn’t go over every detail of the day when we got together.”

“What about money? Did Brandon ever mention having money trouble?”

Urban’s eyes narrowed. “Not to me.”

“He didn’t tell you that his payroll checks were bouncing?”

Urban’s gaze shot to mine. “No, but you’ve sure been busy, haven’t you?”

“For all the good it’s done. What about his family? Did he ever talk about them?”

“Not really. Why?”

“No one seems to know about his life before he came here.”

“That’s not unusual,” Urban said. “Not in a place like this.”

“Maybe not,” I conceded, “but someone’s going to have to plan a funeral service and decide where he’ll be buried. I just wonder who’s going to do all of that.”

“The police will know.”

“Yeah, maybe.” I stared around the room and thought how odd it was to find comfort in the presence of a near-stranger.

Urban flicked something only he could see from his shorts. “Hell, I don’t know what you want me to say, Abby. You’re asking me questions I can’t answer. We never talked about stuff like that.”

“Then what did you talk about?”

“Stuff.” When I didn’t move on, he added, “We talked about skiing. About the best hiking trails. Whose turn it was to buy the beer. Sometimes he’d talk about the business, but not often.”

“Was he worried about it?”

“Not that I knew of.”

“What about Chelsea?”

Urban stopped moving. “What about her?”

“She and Brandon were serious about each other, weren’t they?”

A laugh shot out of Urban’s mouth. “Brandon and Chelsea? Are you kidding?”

“They weren’t a couple?”

He dug a pack of cigarettes from behind a book and held them up, either offering or asking, I wasn’t sure which. I waved off the question, and he lit up, inhaling so deeply his face caved in. It made me wonder how he found enough wind to ride his bike. “They weren’t a couple,” he said when he exhaled. “She’s one weird chick.”

I sat up straight. “What do you mean?”

“I mean she bugs me. But I guess she never bothered Brandon. He kept her working there.”

“Can you give me something specific? What is it about her that bugs you?”

Urban lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know. She’s different.”

Hardly a crime. “This whole town is made up of people who are different,” I reminded him.

His lips twitched. “Can’t argue with that. All I know is, I would have sent her packing the first time she didn’t show up for work.”

“The
first
time?”

He took another deep drag from the cigarette and exhaled noisily. “Let’s just say she wasn’t the most reliable employee in history.”

“I knew that much,” I admitted. “I never could understand why Brandon didn’t fire her. Maybe this explains it.”

“Naw, I think he just liked playing big brother or something. It made him feel good to take care of people.”

Was that really the reason? I just didn’t know. I’d been so hopeful that Urban would know something helpful, but he seemed as confused as I was. “So you think that’s why he left Max with her the night he died?”

Urban flicked ash into an overflowing ashtray. “Who told you that?”

“I heard it somewhere.”

“Never happened. Brandon never let that dog out of his sight.”

“Apparently, he did that night. At least that’s the rumor. I’d sure like to find out if it’s true or not. Do you have any idea where she lives?”

He gave his head an uncertain shake. “I’m trying to remember if Brandon ever told me, but I don’t think so. ’Course he might have, and I just didn’t pay attention.”

“Do you think one of his other friends would know?”

“You can ask, but I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you. Brandon played his hand close to the vest, you know? He never really opened up a whole lot to anybody.”

“So then he could have been madly in love with Chelsea.”

Urban nodded thoughtfully. “I guess he could have.”

“So if Brandon did leave Max with her, he must have had a good reason. If it wasn’t because he was planning to set fire to the store, why do you think he did it?”

Urban’s expression grew solemn. He crushed out the cigarette and looked at me. “That’s the thing, Abby. He
wouldn’t
have done it no matter what the reason. He just wouldn’t have left Max behind . . . unless—” He met my gaze, and I could tell he felt as miserable as I did.

My heart slowed, and an empty hole opened up inside my chest. It wasn’t easy, but I made myself say aloud what we were both thinking. “Unless he knew he wasn’t coming back.”

I was just digging the keys out of my pocket
when Karen pulled up in her Subaru the next morning. I’d spent a long time the night before thinking about my conversation with Urban and trying to figure out what I was missing. The nearly sleepless night had left me looking a little like Grandma Shaw—complete with puffy eyes and blotchy skin.

I’d dragged on another sweatshirt and covered my hopeless hair with a baseball cap, but I couldn’t hide the rest.

Karen climbed out of her car and gave me a thorough once-over. “You sick or something?”

“Not sick, just tired. I got in late, and I didn’t sleep well.”

“Oh? Why?”

After our conversation yesterday, I wasn’t in the mood for true confessions—or for the lecture that would inevitably follow. I tried changing the subject. “How was Paige when you got home yesterday?”

Karen responded with a suspicious scowl. “Fine. Why?”

“You were worried about her yesterday.”

“Yeah . . . and?”

“And she’s family. I’m concerned.”

Karen snorted a laugh and pushed past me into the kitchen.

“Well I
am
!”