Pall in the Family (4 page)

I stepped onto the sidewalk outside the police station
and into the familiar heat of July in Michigan and felt my shoulders relax. I had known coming back to Crystal Haven would be stressful, but I hadn't counted on Mac. The last time I'd heard anything he'd been working in Saginaw, on the opposite side of the state. Aunt Vi had informed me—
after
my bags were unpacked—that Mac had returned to the county sheriff's department as a detective. Because his mother still lives in Crystal Haven, I'd assumed we would run into each other eventually, but not like this. We had done an excellent job of avoiding each other when we lived a couple of hours apart in Saginaw and Ann Arbor. It would be much more difficult in a small town.

My stomach reminded me that Baxter had stolen my lunch. I turned left out of the station and headed to Stark's Bar and Grill. Alex Ferguson worked there and, provided he wasn't on one of his “improve the menu” tirades, I could get a good burger. Alex and I had been friends since the first day of high school. As I walked, I concentrated on the list of clients I needed to see that afternoon. I didn't want to think about Mac. Or about Sara. Or about my family. What I wanted was to whine to Alex about everything that had happened and have him pat me on the back and say “poor Clyde.” Of course, there was zero chance of that happening.

I weaved my way through families pushing strollers, teens eating ice cream, and shoppers loaded down with bags of clothes and new-age trinkets. It was after one o'clock; the crowd was starting to clear outside the restaurant and the usual line out the door had disappeared. I stepped inside and squinted into the dim interior. The dark wood paneling, low lights, and dark green flooring made the restaurant feel cave-like. Alex claimed the owner, Joe Stark, kept it dark so no one would notice he hadn't updated the décor since the place had opened in the 1970s. A disturbing amount of olive-colored leather seating and mustard accents dominated the dining area. The place had been suffering a slow slide into oblivion with only a few loyal regulars keeping it afloat until Alex was hired on as the chef two years ago. It now had become a “must-visit” for the tourists.

I sat at my favorite table in the corner, facing the door. The server came to take my drink order. She was very thin and wore an oversize T-shirt and jeans. I asked her to put in my request for a burger and to let Alex know I was there if he had any time to spare.

She returned about five minutes later with a Diet Coke and something on a plate that did not resemble any sort of food I had ever seen. I sighed, and said, “New menu item?”

“No, Mr. Ferguson said he's trying it out. He wants to see what you think.” She lowered her voice to protect the other customers. “It's a tofu-eggplant stack.”

My mouth went dry. I hate eggplant.

“Is he making a burger?”

“Um, I don't think so.” She shrugged.

I poked at the layers of stiff white tofu and gooey eggplant. They were battered and fried. Even for Alex, I didn't think I could do it. I tried a small bite of tofu and didn't die.

I gestured to the waitress.

“Could you go put in an order for that burger and pretend it's for another table?”

Her eyes lit up as she saw the deviousness of my plan. They grew dim as she glanced at the mess on my plate.

“That should work. But he said he'd be out in a few minutes to get your opinion.” Her furrowed brow said she had no faith in my ability to pull this off.

“It's okay. I can handle him.” I smiled in my most winning way and even cut a slice of the stack to show her I was a good sport.

I quickly cut the food into smaller pieces and pushed them all around my plate. I put a few in a napkin and stuffed them into my bag just as Alex came out from behind the swinging door that led to the kitchen. He was slightly taller than me, with broad shoulders from kayaking on Lake Michigan. A few dark curls had escaped the gel he used and fell onto his forehead. He had the bluest eyes I had ever seen. He wiped his hands on his apron and scanned the room.

I gave a small wave. I pointed to my mouth and pretended to be chewing.

“Hi, what do you think?” he said as he pulled up a chair and assessed the plate in front of me.

I faked a swallow and took a sip of soda. “It's like nothing I've ever had before.”

“I know. I really wanted to stretch the limits.”

“You've done that. But do you think you might have stretched a little too far?”

“I know, I know. Stark thinks it's ‘cuisine' if we wrap the steaks in bacon, or add bacon to a salad. Once I told him we could wrap water chestnuts in bacon, but that was too ‘fancy.'” He waved his fingers to demonstrate “fancy.” “I don't know how much more of this I can take.” He pushed his hair back with both hands and then pulled it all forward again. No wonder the gel wasn't working.

“The place is doing great, Alex. That's all because of you. Stark will come around.”

“Speaking of bacon, this morning he didn't even show up for the prep work.” He took my fork and ate a piece of the eggplant without choking. “I had to do it all when I came in at ten, plus all my regular stuff, and the line starts forming at eleven thirty. I guess I'm lucky that all they want is burgers and sandwiches.”

I stared for a moment in fascination as he ate some more of my food.

“Listen, have you heard about Sara Landess?”

“Did she and Tish have another shouting match? Or was it her and Gary?” He slurped some of my Diet Coke.

“She's dead, Alex.”

He choked on the soda and spit most of it back into the glass. He took the drink napkin to mop his face and slid the glass toward me.

“What? What happened? A car accident?”

“No, she was murdered.” I wrinkled my nose and pushed the drink away. “Seth and I found her body when we went to take care of Tuffy this morning.”

“Oh no. I'm so sorry. Are you okay? Is he okay? He's just a kid. Did he see much of it?”

“He saw enough.” I nodded. “Tuffy's at my house now giving testimony to Aunt Vi,” I said. Alex snorted and continued to mop up the soda.

“We have Baxter staying with us because Tish decided to go out of town this morning. Why did you think Tish and Sara had been fighting?”

“Oh, I don't think it's anything.” He waved away the question. “Tish and Sara haven't gotten along since Tish tried to blackball her certificate last year.”

All psychics working in Crystal Haven have to be licensed by the city council to practice within the city limits. I knew it could ruin their chances of starting a business if it didn't go through.

“I didn't know about that.”

“It all blew over, and Sara got her certificate. Sara was really good. Tish was jealous.” He shrugged. “She was just causing trouble.”

“I wonder if Mac knows,” I said, pushing the food around on the plate, hoping Alex hadn't noticed I wasn't actually eating it.

“What does Mac have to do with this?” He sat back, watching me carefully. Alex had been my biggest support when Mac had ended our relationship by moving to the other side of the state. He knew, better than anyone, how hard it would be for me to see Mac again.

“He's the detective in charge.” I took a very small piece of tofu and ate it. This was torture on a mostly empty stomach, and Alex had ruined my drink. “He's with the sheriff's office as their homicide detective.”

“Oh, right. I heard about that. Well, it's a good thing you're not on the Crystal Haven force, or you'd have to deal with him.”

“Trouble is, because I'm a witness, I
do
have to deal with him.”

The waitress approached with a Styrofoam container. I tried to gesture with my eyebrows to abort the mission, but she just kept coming. Alex noticed what she didn't and turned around.

“What's this?” he said.

“Just a take-out burger. For Seth,” I said.

His expression told me he wasn't buying it.

“I guess you better hurry before it gets cold.” He stood and walked to the kitchen without saying good-bye.

“You know I hate eggplant.” My voice sounded whiny even to me.

* * *

Leaving Stark's place
in the middle of the day was disorienting. The bright sun blinded me as I stepped out of the dark restaurant. I turned in the direction of my Jeep just as Officer Andrews rushed toward me out of a crowd of afternoon tourists and almost knocked the precious Styrofoam cargo out of my hand. We fumbled for a moment before I managed to get both hands on it and save my lunch from going
splat
on the sidewalk.

“Clyde, I'm sorry, I've been looking everywhere for you. I saw your car parked up the street and I've been in every store.” He stopped to take a breath.

“What's wrong, Tom?”

He held up one finger while gulping air. I noticed we were attracting an audience.

“Everything's fine. I just really wanted to catch you before you went home.” He glanced up the street toward the police station. “We can't talk here. Will you meet me at my mom's house in five minutes?”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “What's this about?”

“Not here. Five minutes, please?” At my nod he darted off up the street.

I didn't remember him being so skittish. Of course, the last time I'd seen him he was shooting cap guns and I was counting the minutes until I could take my money and run.

I drove to Jillian's house, which was located a few blocks away from the commercial section of town. I wolfed down half the burger before I got out of the car. The house looked smaller from the front than it actually was. With all those children, the Andrews family had needed space. Jillian also ran her business out of the house. She was a spiritual healer, and much of her work involved client consultations. A sign in the front window read:
PSYCHIC HEALER, HERBS, AMULETS, CRYSTALS
.

Tom opened the door before my finger was done pressing the doorbell.

“Hi, thanks for coming.” He pulled the door wide and swept his arm toward the back of the house.

I had never been in this house without wishing for heavy-duty earplugs. When the Andrews gang was growing up, the noise level had always been just short of deafening.

“I've never been in your house when it was this quiet.” I had fallen unintentionally into a whisper.

“Or this clean,” Tom said.

He was right. The front room used to contain all manner of plastic dolls, toys, and ride-on vehicles. The sheer volume of clutter seemed to add to the noise. In the absence of children, Jillian had turned it into a serene sitting room with off-white furniture and neutral accents.

“Do you still live here?” I asked as I followed him down the hall to what I thought would be the kitchen.

He shook his head. “No, I have my own place a few blocks over. This was closer, and my mom had to run some errands. She left me in charge of her kitchen.”

He pushed the door at the end of the hallway and we entered what looked like a witch's workroom. The walls were dark wood with exposed beams overhead that were cluttered with hanging herbs and grasses. Several blackened pots sat on an ancient stove. One bubbled madly and spit liquid onto the fire below. Tom moved quickly past shelves of glass vials and bottles, most of which contained powders and liquids that Jillian used in her healing work, and turned down the heat. Some people were just not satisfied with healing energies and crystals, and Jillian had always been known as someone who could mix up a few drops of something to cure just about any illness or distress. Just as he stopped the pan from boiling over, a teakettle began a steady scream.

Tom removed the kettle from the burner. The shriek died away. He began making tea as if we met every day in his mother's workshop.

“Sit, relax,” he said.

I sat. I did not relax.

“What's up, Tom?” I said as he placed a heavy brown mug in front of me. It smelled of vanilla and damp leaves. Rooibos. Jillian's favorite and something I had been subjected to since childhood.

He sat across from me with his own steaming beverage. He clasped the mug in both hands and inhaled the steam.

“Since I joined the force I've heard great things about your work in Ann Arbor,” he said. “Your mother can't say enough about what a great job you did there. According to her, you're good at sensing where to find evidence, questioning witnesses, and figuring out how crimes were committed. She says you had an incredible record while you were with the police.”

The room was hushed; even the bubbling pot seemed quieter. I didn't know what to say. I had no idea my mother paid any attention to my police work. Most of my conversations with her circled the question of why I wouldn't allow my “talents” to develop.

“She really said all that?”

Tom nodded. “I was hoping you would help me on this case. I've never worked on a murder before, and Detective McKenzie doesn't tolerate mistakes.”