False Impressions (17 page)

“Wait. I need to tell you about my day. I didn’t want to say anything in front of the Campbells, but . . .” She hesitated, seeking out his eyes. He was her touchstone. If she could share her news with him, she could bear it. “J.B. was murdered.”

Mitch listened, his face grim. “Oh no. That’s going to be hard on his family,” he said.

“Yeah.”

She told him the rest. They were quiet for a few minutes. She leaned against him, but his face felt as cold as the ice he wanted her to sculpt.

“I know what you need,” Mitch said. “Power tools.”

He picked up the chain saw.

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll chop off my foot?” April asked, taking the chain saw from him. She was surprised at how heavy it was. She grasped it with two hands and felt it balance out.

“Go for it,” Mitch said. He pulled a set of goggles over her head and settled them on her face.

She turned the switch and felt the tool jump to life in her hands. The blade cut through the first piece of wood easily. To her surprise, April found wielding the chain saw exhilarating. She liked the way it vibrated, sending shock waves up her arms and down to her toes.

She split all the wood in the pile, took off her goggles and looked for more. Her face was warm and her fingers tingled.

Mitch barked a laugh. “I knew you would take to this.”

“I like knowing I could split the firewood if I needed to. How hard can ice sculpture be?”

“A lesson for another day. Let’s go back inside. I’m freezing.” Mitch jumped in place. “Being out here doing nothing is killer.”

Reluctantly, April followed his instructions on wiping down the chain saw and put it away. She wasn’t cold at all. She was looking forward now to working with the ice.

Back inside, they took off their layers of outdoor gear.

Mitch leaned in. “You look beautiful right now. Your cheeks are rosy from the cold. You sweated a bit and it’s making little curls along your neck,” Mitch continued, his words buzzing in her ear. He trailed his finger along her nape. She felt a corresponding flush throughout the rest of her body.

Mitch leaned away, still looking at her as if they were alone. April was too aware that Grizz and Charlotte were watching. Grizz was back in his recliner but had muted the TV when they’d come in. They clearly wanted a report.

April said, loudly enough for everyone to hear, “I really liked using that saw.”

Grizz grumbled, “Firewood should be split by hand.”

“No one’s taking away your job, are they, April?” Charlotte asked from the kitchen. She cast April a significant look.

“Nope, I’ll stick to wood cut by you, Grizz. Otherwise we’d freeze to death in here.”

She thought she was laying it on a little thick, but Grizz cheered up.

“How about a game of cribbage, Winchester?” Grizz said, pushing up out of the recliner. “You owe me a rematch, if I remember right.”

No one doubted Grizz’s memory when it came to cribbage. He and Mitch had played before, and Mitch had won—a rare spectacle.

Mitch agreed. “Boy, if I have to get my butt kicked, you’re the man to do it.”

“Damn straight.”

Charlotte tsked at the sound of profanity. A timer went off. She leaned over the oven and brought out a cookie sheet. Suddenly, the barn was filled with the smell of sugar and vanilla. April couldn’t believe it. Snickerdoodles. Charlotte had whipped up a batch of April’s favorites while they were outside.

April looked around. This felt like family, she realized. A crazy thought. She hadn’t known any of these people a year ago, and yet here she was feeling the warm fuzzies for them.

Living with the Campbells had been a crash course in what kind of people they were.

They were good people.

The phone rang. It was Ed and Vince, reporting that it was sunny and seventy in Florida.

Charlotte spoke to Vince first. Grizz grunted a few words, then went to set up the cribbage board. April got on the line and assured Vince his parents were doing okay. Then she was passed over to Ed.

Her father’s voice boomed. He was excited. “Great news, Ape. Mrs. H. called from Rome. The painters are finished with the east wing drawing room. You can go into Mirabella and work your magic. The guys will be ready for you by Thursday, probably.”

Mirabella was the house restoration job they’d been on for the last six months. It would last another year. April’s part, stamping on the walls, was intermittent and had been slowed by the discovery of termites in the beams.

Work! That great four-letter word. She was happy to be going back to work. A paycheck couldn’t be too far behind. She’d have to do double duty on the Ice Festival stamps, but she could manage. She’d get started tonight.

Money coming in meant she could really afford her own place. She added looking for a rental to her growing to-do list.

This particular family unit—Grizz skunking Mitch, Charlotte washing cookie sheets—was about to be broken up.

 

April excused herself and went up to the loft bed early. She
needed to do some work on Rocky’s stamps. Mitch and Grizz were still playing, so she climbed up, listening to the two men count points. It was nice background noise.

April opened her sketchbook. She pulled her lap desk closer. Rocky wanted wintry stamps. She tried sketching the bare branches, snowflakes. She was already tired of winter. The time to draw for winter was in summer when snowflakes were charming designs, not the cause of stress and discomfort.

She tossed her sketchbook aside. This was why she couldn’t be a stamp designer. Creativity on demand was not her strong suit. She needed inspiration. She squeezed her fingers, trying to relive the tension that had taken up residence in her hand. In her interior design work, she used the architecture, textiles, even fashions of the period to play off of. She had no trouble presenting the client with dozens of drawings to chose from.

April turned to a clean page, turned off her mind and just let her fingers draw.

When she looked down, she realized she’d sketched the murder scene. The bare trees, the rolling road, the ravine. J.B.’s car, nose down, nearly hidden by the evergreens.

Someone had shot J.B. up close and pushed his car off the road. Shot him with a small gun. A lesser coroner might not have found it. Given that the other deputy coroner was a veterinarian, there was a good chance that the two small bullet holes would have been overlooked.

J.B. had known the person who killed him, that seemed evident. Clearly, someone was angry that he’d returned. Or perhaps someone had followed him from Tina’s house? Someone from his old life who didn’t want him to return. But who?

If there was any of the gang left, maybe they had to silence him. J.B. could identify them. Maybe he had been blackmailing them.

But Yost had said there was no meth making going on. It could be more personal. She didn’t know if J.B. had had a girlfriend when he’d lived in Aldenville. A jealous husband? A jilted lover?

She had a lot of questions. She’d go to Kit’s in the morning and find out more about J.B.

April heard footsteps on her ladder. Mitch’s head popped into view. She realized the barn had gotten quiet.

“How’s it going?” he whispered, perching on the ledge. She scooted close to him. He put an arm around her, and they sat, legs dangling. She could see the lights were out except for a low one over the kitchen sink. The Campbells were two mounds on their bed.

“Your sister’s not going to be happy with me. I can’t design worth a crap. I’m totally distracted by J.B.’s murder,” she said.

They were quiet for a few minutes. He spoke first. “I hate the idea of being in a box on a shelf in Deana’s place. Promise me never to cremate me,” he said finally.

“Really? You’re such an environmentalist. Isn’t it the most green way to go?”

He shook his head. “I’ve got five acres of ground. Find a spot for me out there. No vault, just a plain wooden box and me. Compost.”

“All right, all right. Enough gruesome talk. I didn’t know you were so against cremation.”

“You’ve got a lot of learn about me, Buchert,” he said, kissing the end of her nose and swinging his legs toward the ladder. “But it’ll have to wait for another day. You’ve got work to do. Even I need some beauty rest.”

 

The next day, April drove out to Kit’s new house. Even under
the present circumstances, Kit had limited time to get the house in order. She would most likely be there.

April was relieved to see her car in the driveway. Kit answered the front door when April knocked. Her face was pale, and she was chewing on the tie from her hooded jacket. She glanced up at April, then dropped her gaze.

April felt her pain. “I’m so sorry about your uncle, Kit. Truly.”

Kit let April put her arms around her and placed her head on her shoulder. April stroked her hair. Kit hiccupped. After a moment, Kit used the heels of her hands to swipe at her eyes. She took a step back.

“The state police were at Mom’s for hours last night.”

“You must be exhausted,” April said. She waited for Kit to continue. Something else was working on Kit. She didn’t look just sad, she looked ashamed. “Were they really hard on you?”

Kit’s face reddened. “One of them said it was a shame J.B. came back to Aldenville to see me.”

April felt her anger rise. What a stupid thing to say. “Kit, you couldn’t have known he would die.”

“I shouldn’t have asked him to come.”

“J.B. came back because he wanted to. He knew the danger.”

Even as she said it, April wondered, did he? He knew he could have been arrested, but did he expect to be murdered? He came after dark so no one would see him. He snuck into town but then showed himself at the gas station. Deana saw him there. Who else saw him?

Were those the actions of a man who feared for his life?

Kit’s face crumpled. “I blew it. I really blew it.”

“Blew what?” April walked her over to the kitchen where the chairs were still set up from the night J.B. visited. She pushed Kit into one and sat across from her. She patted her knee and tried to get the girl to look at her.

Kit wouldn’t look up. Her forehead was creased in pain. There was something she wasn’t telling April.

“Hey,” April said softly, hooking a hair behind Kit’s ear. After what she’d said to her mother in the hospital, the kid had no one to talk to. “Look at me. I’m not going to judge you and tell you you should have done things differently. I already know you did the best you could.”

Kit sat back in the chair, shuddering as her crying stopped. Her voice had dropped to a whisper. “I could have changed the way this turned out.”

She leaned forward on her knees. April stilled herself, waiting for Kit to continue. The girl had something to get off her chest.

Before she could begin again, there was a firm knocking on the kitchen door. The house had a breezeway between the kitchen and the garage, and they could see a figure in the dimly lit space. Officer Henry Yost came in, doffing his hat. Great timing, as usual.

“You two ladies out here by yourself?” he said, looking through the kitchen into the living room. He stepped around a folding table full of wallpaper tools as he checked for other people. Who did he expect to find? J.B. come back from the dead? Again?

“More questions, Officer Yost? Can’t it wait? Kit’s not really in a good place right now,” April said, standing next to Kit and gathering Kit to her side.

He held up a hand. “I know that. I’m not here to interrogate her. Her uncle is not my investigation. Of course, I’m doing what I can to help them, but this is the state’s gig. I’m just here as a friend of the family.” He patted Kit on the back. “I promised her parents I’d keep an eye on things.”

There was an awkward silence. Yost didn’t seem to notice he was interrupting. He loomed over the two of them. Kit was beyond being a polite host, and April had never felt the need to coddle Yost. She wished he would just go away.

Instead, he looked around the room. “How’s the remodeling going? You kids have been putting in the hours on this place. You plan on being here late again tonight?” he said.

Kit said, “Logan’ll be here with me.”

“Well, I’ll drive by later, just to check up on you.”

April saw her opening. She got up and moved toward Yost, crowding him to the front door. She wanted him to get the hint that he was not needed there.

Once they were in the living room, out of Kit’s hearing, April asked, “What do the police think about the shooting?”

Yost looked her in the eye. “They think J.B. Hunsinger was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Yost tipped his hat and left.

April squinted after Yost. There was no way the police thought this was a random shooting. He wasn’t going to share what he knew, though. Not with her.

She wanted to hear the rest of what Kit had to say about her uncle. She had an idea that she knew what was troubling the girl.