I left work a few minutes past five, eager to arrive home and start dinner. I’d marinated a chicken the night before and had plenty of veggies and salad in the fridge to choose from. I hadn’t expected the heavy traffic en route to the cottage. Why was I surprised? It was rush hour all over the country. I’d been spoiled living with Aunt Harriet and Uncle Bosco, their house a short walk across the Green to the library.
Several people had texted me during the day to say they’d be coming to my birthday-housewarming party. Trish told me that Barbara would be in town that weekend, so I sent her an e-mail invitation too.
I thought about my conversation with Evelyn. We’d both agreed that Laura’s secret lover might very well have killed her. Who could he be? Certainly not her next-door neighbor. As for the other men in her life—Jared, Ryan, their father, her brother, and Ken Talbot—my gut feeling was that none of them had killed Laura.
What had the police discovered at the crime scene? Had the murderer left any clues? His intention wasn’t to kill Laura, or he would have brought a murder weapon. A gun or a knife. Something that showed premeditation. Instead, he (or she) had picked up a vase and bashed Laura over the head.
Or had the killer been more calculating than I first thought? What if he or she knew exactly where the vase was and had planned to use it? The vase had been wiped of all fingerprints, which showed a sense of self-preservation. My mind raced with possibilities as I exited the road as soon as I could and drove back to the village. I wanted to talk to Lieutenant Mathers and get some background information on the case. Of course, he might not be in his office or willing to talk to me about Laura’s murder, but it was worth a try.
A few minutes later, I parked in the lot behind the police station and entered the small brick building. I told the female officer at the front desk that I wanted to speak to Lieutenant Mathers.
“And you are?” she asked.
“Carrie Singleton.” I decided to use my most potent influence. “Bosco Singleton’s my uncle.”
“That’s nice.” She stood, rising a head taller than me, and pursed her lips. “I’ll see if the lieutenant’s free to speak to you.”
She returned a few minutes later. “He’ll see you. Follow me.”
“Thank you.”
She flashed a smile, which changed her face completely. “You’re the new head of programs at the library.”
“I am.”
“Your Halloween party was awesome. Can’t remember the last time my hubby and I had so much fun. I’m Gracie, by the way.”
We shook hands. “Hi, Gracie. Nice to meet you.” So much for using Uncle Bosco to wield some clout.
Lieutenant Mathers was working at his computer when Gracie showed me in.
“Have a seat. Be finished with this in two minutes,” he said.
I sat in one of the two metal chairs facing his desk. Was coming here a good idea? The police didn’t like having civilians question them about ongoing cases, which was why I’d asked Uncle Bosco to find out what he could. I needed to learn everything that had been discovered about Laura’s murderer.
“Hello, Miss Singleton. What can I do for you?”
“Please, call me Carrie.”
He nodded but didn’t ask me to call him John. Not that I expected him to. I cleared my throat, wishing I’d planned my opening. To my surprise, the words spilled out, sounding natural and logical.
“Lieutenant Mathers, I was in charge of the library event where Al Buckley was poisoned. The next day, you interviewed me at my uncle’s home.”
His blue eyes bore into mine. “I remember.”
“It was the first time I’d met Detective Buckley, but I liked him immediately. I felt terrible that someone poisoned him.” Tears sprang to my eyes. I blinked them back furiously. “I was wondering if you—the police—have made any progress in the case.”
Lieutenant Mathers leaned back and steepled his fingers. “It’s an ongoing investigation, Miss Singleton. Which means there’s nothing I can share with you at this point.”
I’d expected that. Still . . . “What about Laura Foster’s murder? I know it was never solved. Are the records of that case available to the public?”
The lieutenant studied me for a minute and then let out a deep belly laugh. “Don’t tell me you’re trying to solve two homicides on your own, Miss Singleton.”
“Of course not! I’ve gotten to know Jared Foster and can’t help wondering who would want to kill his mother.”
“She was a lovely lady.”
“Have you any idea why the killer would take her gold bracelet and antique pin and nothing else?”
“Haven’t a clue.”
I let out a huff of frustration. “Can you at least tell me if the two murders are connected?”
He stood. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that either. However, there are plenty of newspaper articles about Laura Foster’s murder online. You can read them in the library.”
“I know.” I got to my feet. “Thanks for your time.”
Lieutenant Mathers tapped my shoulder. “I sincerely hope you’re not out to solve these murders. There’s a real killer in our midst. If he thinks you’re snooping around, he might go after you. Take my advice and leave the investigating to the police.”
“Of course.” Because you’re doing such a great job.
I headed for my car. What did I expect? I started out for the cottage once again. Not only had the lieutenant been less than helpful; he’d warned me not to do any investigating. Well, he couldn’t stop me from talking to Jared and his family. I grinned as an idea occurred to me. Trish’s dad, Roy, had been Al Brinkley’s good friend. He’d been eager to talk to me about Al. It was possible that Al had spoken to Roy about Laura’s case and named the person he believed had murdered her.
For some inexplicable reason, the traffic was lighter now. Eight minutes later, I turned onto the Avery property. I stopped at Dylan’s house to collect his mail. I unlocked the front door, noting the small pile of business-sized envelopes and advertisements the mail carrier had slid through the mail slot. The house felt chilly; Dylan must have turned the heat way down in his absence.
I gathered up the mail, intending to read off the return addresses to Dylan when I called him later that night. The phone rang as I was leaving. What to do? I started for the kitchen and then stopped in my tracks. Dylan hadn’t asked me to answer his phone. But then, he probably never expected it to ring during the few minutes I was at his house collecting his mail. What could be the harm?
“Avery residence.”
“Where’s Dylan?” a gruff male voice asked.
“Not here.”
“Tell him he’d better . . . Forget it.” He disconnected.
Shaken by the caller’s manner, I hurried through the hall and locked the door behind me on my way out.
I stepped inside the cottage, glad to be home. I switched on the hall and living room lights and started dinner. The aroma of roasting chicken filled the kitchen. I sipped Chardonnay as I cut up lettuce, tomatoes, and a cucumber for a salad and then sautéed mushrooms and zucchini, which I topped with grated parmesan.
My first dinner prepared in my cottage was surprisingly delicious. Things were going well. I loved my new home and my job. I was making friends in Clover Ridge, and I had family. Oddly enough, moving had brought me closer to Uncle Bosco and Aunt Harriet. I even looked forward to seeing my cousin Randy at my party. Julia had e-mailed to say they’d be happy to come. For the first time, I felt grounded and like I was where I belonged.
Of course, I wasn’t getting anywhere regarding the murders. Lieutenant Mathers was right. It was police business to investigate and track down the murderers. They had the know-how, the work force, the technical wizardry. Only, they hadn’t managed to find out who killed Laura Foster fifteen years ago. I sensed they weren’t making headway finding Al’s killer either.
It had to be the same person. Which meant the killer had come to the meeting intending to kill Al. How he or she had managed to put the poisoned cookie on Al’s plate without being seen was beyond me.
I enjoyed my dinner and then cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher. I made a cup of coffee using the Keurig machine Dylan had thoughtfully provided. Dylan. I marveled at the way things had turned out. Not at all as I’d expected when the curt male voice had answered my call.
I went into the small bedroom I was using as my office and called Roy Peters. He sounded happy to hear from me.
“Roy, I was wondering if you’d still like to get together so you can tell me more about Al Buckley.”
“It would be my pleasure. When were you thinking?”
“I start work late tomorrow. We could meet for breakfast or an early lunch at the Cozy Corner Café.”
“Much as I’d love to, I have two doctors’ appointments tomorrow. Wednesday I bowl. How’s Thursday?”
“Thursday I don’t have to be at work until ten thirty. I could meet you for breakfast.”
“Is eight too early for you?”
“A bit,” I admitted. “How’s eight thirty?”
We agreed to meet at the café Thursday morning. Next, I called Dylan’s cell phone. It rang a few times. I was about to disconnect when he answered.
“Hi, Carrie. How are things going?”
“Fine. I picked up your mail. I’ll send it to you tomorrow morning. Shall I toss the junk?”
“Yes, please. Here’s the address.” He rattled off a street in Baltimore and then asked me to read it back to him. After I did, he said, “Just a second.” He muffled the phone, spoke to someone, and returned a minute later. “Sorry about that. Anything exciting happening in Clover Ridge?”
For some reason I didn’t understand, I found myself telling him about my visit to the police station. I ended by saying that I didn’t think the police were getting anywhere regarding the two homicides.
He laughed sarcastically. “Why am I not surprised? I hope you’re not playing detective and trying to solve both cases.”
“Jared and I have spoken to a few people, but no one seems to know anything. His mother’s friend Helena said Laura was having an affair, but Helena didn’t know who the man was.”
“Some cases don’t get solved.”
“But it looks like Al’s murder is linked to hers.”
“Very possibly, though we can’t be certain. What else is new?”
“My aunt and uncle are throwing me a party here at the cottage for my birthday. I decided to also make it a housewarming party.” My heart hammered. “It’s the second Saturday night in December. I’d love it if you could come.”
“Thanks for the invite, but I can’t say if I’ll be home then. Hold on—”
I heard voices again and Dylan saying he’d be right there.
“Have to go. Talk to you soon.”
“Someone called while I was at your house collecting your mail,” I added quickly.
“Who?”
“It was a man. He didn’t tell me his name, but he was abrupt. Sounded a bit ominous, actually. He hung up when I said you weren’t there.”
“I forgot to tell you, never answer the phone, okay? I can retrieve my messages myself.”
Stung, I said that I wouldn’t do it again.
“Good-bye, Carrie.”
I disconnected, annoyed with myself. Now Dylan was mad at me, which bothered me more than I cared to admit.