The Double Wedding Ring (10 page)

T
ell me if I'm wrong, but the first time you introduce your boyfriend to your parents, murder is not a great topic for discussion.

“Were you scared?”

“Why would Jesse let you near a body?”

“Are you in danger?”

“Is Jesse in danger?”

And the most complicated of all: “What are you doing looking for bullet holes on a dead body?”

I took a deep breath, didn't answer any of the questions, and just waited. Jesse, though more concerned than I was, took his cues from me and also sat quietly. Anna seemed almost frightened.

Finally, when my parents calmed down, I stepped in. “Maybe it's a good idea for Anna to go back to your place, Jesse,” I said. “The last few hours have been pretty awful for her, and this isn't something she needs to add to her plate.”

“Good idea.” Jesse took Anna's arm and helped her get up, as she was suddenly a little unsteady. My parents can do that sometimes.

I let them leave the interrogation room before I spoke again. “In the year since I've been living in town there've been a few incidents. . . .”

“What kind of incidents?” My mother's voice raised an octave.

“Let her speak, Patty,” my dad said. “What kind of incidents, Nell?”

“Crimes. A few murders . . .”

“A few murders!” they both said in unison.

I quietly, and with as few details as possible, went through the list of murders, break-ins, arson, and assorted smaller crimes that Archers Rest, like a lot of places these days, had to deal with. I wanted to leave some of the illegal activities out, but I feared a constant trickle of gossip would be a bigger headache for all of us than one long wave of information. I ended by assuring them that Jesse was a capable chief, with an amazing police force and a town that loved and supported him.

“It's a safe place, really,” I told them. “It's a lovely place. I'm very happy here.”

“What's your role in all this?” my dad asked. “There's more to this story, Eleanor Margaret Fitzgerald.”

All three names. I was in trouble. But I was also, I silently reminded myself, a grown woman. I didn't need to explain my actions to anyone. I paused for a minute, trying to think of the best way to explain it, then gave up and just plunged ahead.

“Sometimes I have theories on a case, ideas of what might have happened, and I share them with Jesse. And sometimes other people, friends of mine from the quilt group, have theories and we all discuss them. Jesse listens and,” I took a breath to find the right words, “sometimes he acts on our ideas. We help him.”

My father looked confused, my mother seemed stricken. “How can he let you put yourself in danger?” she asked. “If he's this great cop, why does he need your help?”

“He doesn't,” I said. “He gets it anyway. I'm good at figuring things out, detective things.”

“You're a painter, Nell, not a detective.”

“I'm actually a quilter, Mom. I've been thinking that maybe I would try to have a career as an art quilter. I'm not sure how exactly, but there are a lot of people who teach their techniques, sell patterns and books. It's just something I'm thinking about.”

Saying it aloud for the first time felt scary but right. I wanted to be a professional quilt artist.

My mother got up and took a long breath. I knew I was giving her a lot to take in all at once, but it felt good to unload. “You said the shop has expanded since I was here?”

I got up, too, as did my dad. “Yes, it's twice the size. It's beautiful and it's really successful.”

“I think I'm going to have a look,” she said. “Fitz, you want to come with?”

He nodded. “There's that coffee shop across the street. Is it any good?”

“The best.”

“Then we'll go there after. Your mother and I need a minute to think about everything that's been going on.”

“It's not something you need to worry about, Dad. I'm an adult. I can take care of myself.”

He kissed my forehead. “I guess you can, but we're still going to worry.”

We walked out of the room and toward the front door of the station. It had gone well, considering. I was feeling kind of pleased. I had been calm and clear and they seemed to accept that Archers Rest wasn't any more immune to crime than Philadelphia or New York, or anywhere.

My dad paused at the door. “The officers who were on the rooftops . . . does that have something to do with that Roger fellow's murder?”

“I don't know,” I said, honestly. There was no point in evading, they would find out everything soon enough. “Someone took a few shots at a car and the Someday sign this morning. There might be a link, but it might be completely unrelated.”

“The Someday sign?” my mother jumped in. “Someone shot the sign above the shop where my mother and daughter work?”

“Yes. But I don't think it was aimed at us directly.” At least I hoped not. “No one was hurt.”

“Oh dear God,” my mother said and grabbed my father's hand.

That last part hadn't gone so well.

J
esse came back to the station just minutes after my parents left. He'd given the state police his office to make some calls, so we went back to the interrogation room. He closed the door and we sat next to each other; we held hands and just enjoyed being alone together. I held on to each second as if we would never have a chance like it again.

“Anna really liked you,” he said. “She said you seemed perky.”

“I don't think perky is a compliment.”

“Really? Well, she said she liked you and she should. And she's glad I'm happy, that Allie is happy.”

“This has got to be hard for her, losing her husband and coming back here to all the memories of Lizzie.”

“Yeah.”

That was all I got out of him, so I continued, “Hard for both of you.”

“It is.”

“You can talk about it with me if you want.”

He squeezed my hand. “I know that. I just don't know what to say. Roger was a great guy, and a great cop. He and Anna had their ups and downs, but who doesn't?”

“Were they separated?”

“Yeah. She said they were talking, trying to work things out. She said Roger had left the force so she thought it was a good sign. Maybe he would get something nine to five and they could spend more time together.”

“Did she say if Roger had any kinds of problems, like gambling or something?”

He looked over at me. “She didn't, and he didn't, at least not the last time I saw him. Why?”

“There has to be a reason he was killed.”

“If your theory is that he came up here to borrow money from me to pay off some loan shark, then you obviously have no idea how little the Archers Rest police force pays.”

“I don't have a theory. If I recall our earlier conversation, I'm not allowed to have a theory.”

“But . . .”

“But what?”

Jesse smiled. “Carrie isn't looking for additional space.”

“How did you . . .”

“The state police met two Carrie Browns. One who gave him a statement about the shooting, and the other who was behaving suspiciously. A woman in her twenties, red coat, long brown hair, was standing in the street staring at Clark's Dry Cleaners.”

“I didn't think he'd describe me.”

“You haven't covered that chapter in your handbook for fake police investigations?”

“That was mean.” I sounded hurt, though really I was relieved he wasn't angry I'd broken my promise.

“You're right,” he said. “So . . . your theory?”

“I told you, I don't have one.”

He relaxed, seemed amused, like his old self. His old self from the day before yesterday.

“What was in the notebook you took from Roger's body?” I asked.

“Nothing. Just the name and phone number of a detective Roger and I used to know in vice. John Toomey. I called him. He hadn't spoken to Roger in a few years. It's a dead end.”

“You don't think the shots came from the park, do you?” he asked.

“Neither do the state police, or else they wouldn't be on the rooftops checking for evidence of a sniper,” I pointed out. “So why did you say it came from the park?”

“I saw something right before the first shot was fired. A flash. I thought it was a shot.”

“Maybe there was someone there. Dru's car didn't start last night.”

“Greg checked it. Someone removed the starter. Someone wanted that car in that spot this afternoon.”

“So if it wasn't the shooter, it was someone watching the shooter who wanted to ensure there would be cover.”

“Seems like it,” he said.

“If the shooter were on the roof, then whoever was by Dru's car was a teammate, there to signal the shooter,” I guessed.

“Signal the shooter about what?” Jesse asked. But as he spoke I saw a realization cross his face. “The flash was to signal that I was on the street and the shooting could start.”

“So the bullets
were
meant for you, as some kind of warning.”

“Whatever Roger had to tell me, maybe the killer thinks I already know.” Jesse wrapped his arm around me and pulled me tighter.

“But the killer, or I guess killers, would have had to know last night that this shooting was going to happen. They planned for it, maybe watched folks in town and saw that Dru's car was there, in a spot where no one usually parks,” I said. “So while one of them was killing Roger, the other was breaking into Dru's car to remove the starter and ensure it would be there the next day? It doesn't make sense. How did they know she wouldn't discover the problem? How would they know she wouldn't have it fixed by the time the shooting started? And how would they know you would be in Jitters?”

“That's a lot of questions, and I don't know the answers, except for the last one,” Jesse said. “I'm at Jitters all the time. I'm certainly on Main Street every day. In fact, I'm on Main Street most of the day,” he said. “The real question is why not kill me? If they think I know something, why not just shoot me like they shot Roger? Why stage a big show in front of the whole town and leave me with nothing but a cut on my arm from fallen glass?”

It was a good question, and it was a terrible question all at the same time.

“Knowing your routine, that points to someone from town,” I said.

“But no one here knew Roger except me. And I think I have a pretty good alibi for the shooting on Main Street.”

I hesitated to continue, since things were going so well. Jesse had his arm around me, I had my head on his shoulders. It was the most romantic a police interrogation room could be.

“I met a man in town today,” I said. “He's thinking of moving here.”

“A quilter?”

“No. His sister is, though. This man drives a blue sedan.”

Jesse was quiet for a moment, then spoke slowly and with a forced casualness that made me very concerned. “When you say you met him, what does that mean?”

“I spoke to him. He spoke to me, technically. At least he spoke first. I was by his car, heading toward the shop, and we sort of met. He said he'd seen me at Jitters and walking Barney.”

“Some guy has been watching you?”

“Bob Marshall. That's his name.” I thought about it for a moment but decided it had to be said. “You've given him several tickets, Jesse. And for things that he didn't do wrong.”

“So you're aware of all the laws in Archers Rest?”

“I don't know if I'm aware of every one, but I do know there's no law against parking across the street from a fire hydrant.”

Jesse spoke through gritted teeth. “If you don't know him, then maybe you should be more careful.”

“Are you telling me not to talk to strangers?” I asked. “Because I'm not Allie, so don't treat me like I'm a child.”

Jesse sat up and took his arm from around me. “We just had a shooting in town. You see someone you don't know who has been watching you. I would hope you would be suspicious.”

“You're suspicious of him.”

“I might be.”

“Then shouldn't you be calling him in for questioning and not just giving him tickets for parking too close to the corner?”

It sounded harsh, and I knew it, but before I had a chance to soften it, Jesse stood up. “This isn't your investigation, Nell, it's mine. So I'm going to handle it my way.”

He opened the door to the room, and I knew there was no point in arguing. Grief was definitely skewing Jesse's perspective, but so was something else. And I'd just blown a good chance of finding out what it was.

“R
obert Marshall,” Bernie said to me over the phone later that night. I was in my bedroom cleaning when she called to tell me her nephew had tracked down the license plate number. Helpful but a little late, unless there was more than a name.

“Is there an address?”

“I knew you would ask that,” she said. “So yes, I've got an address. He lives on Waverly Place in Manhattan. He's thirty-nine, has perfect vision, and he's an organ donor.”

An unselfish trait for a killer, assuming he was one.

“Strange thing, though,” Bernie continued. “His driver's license has been lapsed for over two years.”

“Maybe he moved out of state.”

“Yeah, but then he moved right back to the same address.”

“Okay, maybe we can look into that further. Now that we have all that his driver's license will tell us, we need more. Jesse knows him but won't say how. My guess is that it's connected to Roger, which probably means someone from the New York police force.”

“Got it,” Bernie answered. “I'll talk to Maggie. I'll bet she has something by tomorrow, because, knowing her, she'll spend the evening on it. Some new computer software that Natalie taught her how to use.” She chuckled.

Maggie had become like a teenager in search of the newest technology, sometimes spending hours a day online. But in Maggie's case it wasn't games or Facebook that kept her interest, it was information—tracking down anything she could find on any subject, especially if it helped solve a case. Once a librarian always a librarian.

“On my way out of town tomorrow I'll drop off the rest of the tablecloths for the wedding,” Bernie continued. “Can't believe I'm going to miss the last quilt group before Eleanor's wedding.”

“There's next Friday, too.”

“Isn't that the rehearsal dinner? What are we doing for the bachelorette party?”

“It's a week from tonight. Dinner, here at the house, I think. All of us together.”

“I suppose you would object to our giving gifts of sexy underwear.”

“If I'm in the room, yes. And I'm sure my mom wouldn't be too thrilled either.”

Bernie laughed. “I thought I'd do a tarot card reading for everyone. I'll tell you what will happen to you. Won't that be fun?”

“That depends on what you tell me, so I expect you to see only good things for me, and especially for Eleanor.”

Bernie didn't answer right away, and when she did answer, she just said good night and reminded me to call Maggie in the morning.

“Nell?” I heard my mother's voice calling from the kitchen. I hung up the phone, gathered some clothes, and dropped them in my grandmother's sewing room, where Patch was sleeping soundly on a half-finished wool throw from an ill-advised attempt I'd made at crochet months ago. One of the many good things about animals is they don't care about stitches or color placement; they just like soft and warm.

I gave the kitten a quick pet, then went downstairs. My mom and Eleanor were putting the finishing touches on dinner, a Moroccan chicken and rice dish that Mom had learned how to cook in Marrakech. Barney circled the kitchen counter, happily sniffing at the unfamiliar fragrances.

“I changed the sheets on my bed,” I told my mom, “and I left fresh towels in the bathroom, so hopefully you'll be comfortable.”

“I feel terrible kicking you out of your own room.”

“The pullout couch in the sewing room is fine,” I lied. It had worn so thin you could feel the springs through the mattress. “Where are Dad and Oliver?”

“Oliver brought some things over from his house,” Eleanor told me. “He and your father are bringing them in.”

“I'll go help.”

My mother grabbed my arm. “Oliver said it's only two boxes. Stay and help us.”

I looked at what was clearly a feast, likely to serve eight or ten hungry people, or in our case provide leftovers for a week. “What can I do?”

“Tell me more about Jesse.”

“What do you want to know?” I asked. “He's kind, he's smart, he's handsome . . .”

“And he's very good to her,” Eleanor jumped in. “He's a good, decent man who loves Nell and who Nell loves. They make a nice match.”

My mom bit the side of her mouth. She used to say my sister and I ganged up on her, now it was clear she felt it was her mother and I doing the same thing.

“What do you want to know, Mom?”

“Why him? He's older than you. . . .”

“Only by a few years. He's just thirty-two.”

“He has a child.”

“And I love her.”

“Yes, but that child needs a mother, someone to look after her, pick her up from school and stay home with her when she's sick. That means sacrifices, Nell.”

“I'm aware of that.”

“And his job . . . It's a tiny job in a tiny town that will keep you stuck here if you stay with him. Sheriff of Archers Rest!” She threw up her hands. “Nell, you were living in Manhattan, dating sophisticated men . . .”

“Getting my heart broken,” I pointed out. “And just because Jesse lives in Archers Rest doesn't mean he's not sophisticated.”

“I'm not saying he isn't a good man. I'm sure he is. And clearly he loves you,” she said. “But being with him, marrying him, means an instant family and staying in Archers Rest until he earns the tiny pension a town like this can afford. It limits you. Limits what you can do, where you can go.”

“But if it's what she wants . . .” My grandmother stepped in again.

“That's not for you to decide,” my mother snapped.

“Or you, Patty,” Eleanor snapped back.

“Oh, this is ridiculous,” my mother yelled at her mother. “I'm trying to have a conversation with my own daughter about the choices she's making. She is talented and smart and beautiful and could have a man who could offer her a future that will allow her to pursue her dreams, travel, have a family when she's ready instead of having one pushed on her. And instead of agreeing with me and doing what's best for Nell, you're encouraging her to marry Andy Taylor and settle down in Mayberry. And a violent, murder-a-minute Mayberry to boot.”

The words floated downward as my dad and Oliver came in carrying boxes. Jesse was right behind them. When my mother saw Jesse's face she turned beet red. Before anyone could speak, she walked out of the house into the darkness of my grandmother's backyard.