Erin and I arrive before dark at Jake’s cabin. The crime scene tape has been removed. Detective Shafer has his man.
Sharon’s key still works, and we step into Jake’s cabin, which still hasn’t been cleaned up. The smell of dried blood is prevalent. I don’t notice any changes. There is not a speck of fingerprint powder dusting any of the surfaces.
“They charge a guy for murder taking place inside a closed cabin and don’t dust for prints?” Erin shakes her head in disgust.
“We’ve seen worse behavior.” I am talking about the lack of crime scene investigation done in a dank apartment building stairwell where a young law student was brutally stabbed to death—the case we worked on last year. I look around the interior again and realize that the bed without a pillow called to me the last time I was here, but it was not until I saw the goose feathers on my skirt that I put it together. Goose feathers and no pillow are much of what Erin and I have to go on for a theory of what really happened that night.
The family will eventually have to pay someone to clean the blood from the table, wall, closed window, and floor if they plan to sell this place. I don’t suspect that any of the Dawsons will want to live in the cabin now.
We photograph Jake’s bed. We gently push the bed from the wall to make sure the pillow is not wedged there. There are no signs of a pillow anywhere in the house or in the trash cans outside.
I use my tweezers and baggies to collect the rest of the goose feathers I find in the dining room. There is not a single loose goose feather to be found on the bed, in the bathroom, or in the bedroom. Erin takes a video of me doing so. She had found some images online of the pillowcase that matched this NASCAR bedspread. She blew up images before we met up and printed some glossies. Fortunately, part of the pattern for the pillow matches the recurring pattern on the bedspread. I don’t think that Jake will mind that I cut out a swatch of fabric. With a gloved hand, I use a butter knife to try to wedge open the dining room window that faces old Mr. Chalmers’ property. The window doesn’t budge, and that is a good sign. We depart quickly and start talking on the drive back to my house.
“Do you think Shafter will buy your theory?” Erin asks.
“Do you?” I reply.
“Even without seeing what the cops have, I can’t say I agree with you, Mom.”
“I still have a couple of things to do to tighten this up, but if I am right, they arrested the wrong person.”
“I agree that if you kill someone with a gun, you don’t leave it on the floor for the police to trace it back to you,” she says.
“But you might if you want to make it look like a death by suicide,” I add.
“You told me that Jason Stillman was not the one who got the brains when they were handed out that day.”
I nod. “Simon reaching out to me is still bothersome, though.”
“Unless it is exactly as it appears. Now that the police raided their hiding place, I think that it gives Simon more credence that he didn’t want the cops looking into their other ‘businesses.’”
My daughter is ambidextrous. She can drive and make air quotes at the same time. We turn the corner onto my street and see three vehicles idling across from our driveway. There is a shiny monster truck, a gleaming black Mercedes, and a non-descript sedan.
“Looks like you have company, Mom.”
We pull into the driveway and wait a few beats as interior lights turn on from all three vehicles. Simon Stillman hops down from the truck. A woman in a sharp charcoal gray business suit emerges from the rear passenger seat of the Mercedes, and an older white male wearing a golf jacket over chinos follows behind her to the driveway entrance. They all stand there as Erin and I walk down the gravel drive to meet them.
“Mrs. Strong, this is Jason’s attorney, Diane Rosenthal, and her private investigator, Bill Spencer.”
I reach out my hand. “This is my daughter, Erin LeGrande. She works part-time for the FBI and might have a conflict if we are going to talk about Jason’s predicament.”
Attorney Rosenthal says, “Thank you for pointing that out. You are right. The FBI is involved in the investigation.”
“I’m gonna head in and start dinner for you and Daddy,” Erin says. She walks back to the house as Ken opens the door for her.
I wave to him and smile bravely. Turning back to the intrepid trio standing at the edge of our property, I say, “It’s best that we talk out here. My husband doesn’t need to hear this either.”
“As you probably already know, Mrs. Strong, Jason was arrested this morning for the murder of Jake Dawson and Brian Yelito.”
“Your client is up to something Attorney Rosenthal, but he did not kill those boys.”
All their eyes widen, but only Simon has the courage to speak. “See? I told you we should talk to her.”
“Simon, may I have a word with you in private?”
We walk away from my house and back in the direction whence Erin and I came. We are out of earshot of his high-priced hired talent. I say, “The Mustangs are not stolen. I am almost certain you are using them for another reason. Do I have your word that you will never come after me about the real purpose you had the boys working on those cars?”
“Yes,” he gulps. “It was Jason’s idea to use the cars.”
“To be safe, I will leave an envelope in my bank deposit box with a statement about that, just in case. Are you okay with that?”
“Yes,” he repeats.
“Good. I’ve only been asked to find out who killed Jake Dawson, and I feel responsible for getting Brian Yelito killed. I think I know who killed him, too. I need your help to prove it. You need to share as much as you can about the police investigation.”
“Everything, Mrs. Strong, I promise.”
“Okay.” We shake on it. “There is no time to lose. I want to recreate the crime at the cabin tomorrow night.” I jingle the key in front of him. “I just need to clear up three things in the morning.”
I walk back to the attorney and the investigator and tell them what I need to prove my theory. Both, I am sure, want to tell me they know best, but Simon is paying them enough money to humor me. After about fifteen minutes, Erin signals me from the house. “Sorry, guys,” I tell them. “If I knew that I was having company, I would have prepared more food.”
We agree on a place and time to meet in the morning, then shake hands again. The one believer and two skeptics go back to their vehicles.
I forego my meditation and yoga this morning and do some dumpster diving at daylight. I had gotten permission from all three building owners to do so. I taught all of them, and we are on a first-name basis. I find what I am looking for on the third try. Both items get bagged and tagged. Two blocks from the center of town, I undertake a stationary surveillance. I am talking like Erin in my head.
Like clockwork, Officer Barney Williams appears and hastens towards the main intersection. Certainly not as exciting as the morning before, but all the same, he must be proud of himself. I watch until he leaves my view to direct traffic during the morning rush hour. I cross the street and walk in to see Vickie Scudder scrolling on her cell phone. I figure she catches up on her social media while Barney curses people not paying attention to his hand signals and whistle.
“Hi, Yvette. Where’s Barney?” I give her a chance to pretend she was not wasting the taxpayer’s money by calling her from the doorway.
She shoves the phone under the desk. “He went to direct traffic. He’ll be back in about forty minutes.”
“I wanted to talk to him about the big arrest. I certainly didn’t see that coming.”
“I can’t remember when we had a double homicide in town.”
“Come to think of it, neither can I. How well did you know Brian and Jake?”
She shrugs. “They were older than me. I never hung around with them.”
“What about your older sister?”
Again, the shrug. “Maybe. We are six years apart. I never hung around with her, either. She didn’t want to be seen with me when we were growing up. I embarrassed her.”
I muse with her to get a reaction. “I taught Brian and Jake. It’s so sad.”
She nods. I think she’d rather be checking out TikTok right now. If she had spent time reclining in Jake’s truck, I am not getting any inkling of it. When Vickie was younger, what you saw is what you got. I never knew her to hide her feelings.
“Well, I know you have work to do, and I won’t bother you anymore. Could you have Barney call me? I had a quick question for him.”
“No problem, Mrs. Strong. There’s one other thing.”
I turn and face her. “What’s that?”
“I heard them talking.” She pointed her thumb over her shoulder. “They won’t admit it, but you were right to want to look at Dawson’s death.”
The distance in language using Jake’s last name instead of calling him Jake cements my thought that Vickie and he were not watching the submarine races down by the river. “I knew Jake pretty well from around town and didn’t think he could shoot himself. Thanks, Vickie.” I smile and leave her to her videos.
Walking to Mike and Yvette’s house, I know I have the opportunity to ask a few questions now that the police have arrested Jason Stillman for two murders. I will remind them that a rank amateur pushed the cops to re-investigate Jake’s shooting and to look harder at the supposed accident that crushed the life out of their other classmate, Brian.
Mike would have a fit if he knew that I was meeting with Simon Stillman and his brother’s legal defense team in about an hour.
I knock on their front door. Mike answers. “Hi, Mrs. Strong. Can I help you?” He’s wearing baggy gym shorts and a T-shirt a size too small for his ripped physique.
“I just wanted to clear the air with you and Yvette. It was a little frosty at Brian’s graveside service.”
“Us too, I guess. Now that they made an arrest and all… come on in. I’ll get Yvette.”
He points to the sofa, and I sit. The TV is on, and I watch as a heavily made-up woman with lots of plastic surgery hawks a super-duper vacuum cleaner. For half-price and three easy payments, it can be mine.
“Hi, Mrs. Strong,” Yvette says as she points to Mike to use the clicker to mute the shrill huckster on the shopping channel.
“Dare I ask?” I ask.
“Doc says that she will induce me Monday if I don’t deliver by then. The baby is fine on all the ultrasounds, and all my vitals are good.”
“Sounds like somebody wants to make a grand entrance.”
Pleasantries asides, one of us has to speak next. I can wait, but I choose to move it along.
“Guys, I hope that we can be friends again. I know that by helping Sharon and Mabel out, it might have had us looking at things differently. Mike, you were only looking out for my best interests, and I do very much appreciate it.”
Yvette speaks for both of them. “But if you didn’t push the cops to take another look, then both murders would go unpunished, and the killer would have gotten away with it.”
Wanting to keep the make nice-nice words flowing, I say, “You also helped me look at things differently as well. I asked Wesley and Erin what it was like growing up in Milford with me being a teacher in town. Remember, we talked about Becky Steele and how Milford was like a fishbowl for her?”
“I remember,” she says.
“I talked to my kids, and they gave me their different takes. I never thought there was an issue. I was wrong. You could say the same for Vickie Scudder, the Mayor’s daughter. She has to be careful in town too, I imagine.” Neither Yvette nor Mike gives me any sign they know anything about Vickie.
“Exactly,” she says.
“Just one thing bugs me, and it’s what Becky said to me at the Dawson house that day.”
I have them both hooked now, and I just have to reel them in if I can.
“What’s that, Mrs. Strong?” Mike asks.
“Becky said that Jake killed himself rather than get married to Sharon. I mean, of all the reasons for Jake to kill himself, Becky offered that reason. Does that make sense to you?”
Neither Yvette nor Mike makes eye contact with me. I have struck a nerve. I push a little harder. “I rode with her to Brian’s service, and we talked a bit.” I think they want me to tell them what they already know. “I didn’t ask her what she meant. I think it’s still a difficult subject.” The silence is deafening. I finish with, “But I definitely got the sense that growing up a pastor’s daughter in a small town affected her.” I can hear their collective sigh of relief.
“But Jake didn’t kill himself. Jason Stillman killed him,” Mike responds but doesn’t answer the question.
I wait a few beats as if I am taking the obvious answer in. “So, are we good, guys?”
“We are, Mrs. Strong.” Yvette answers.
“Take care, dear.” Looking at Mike, I add, “Here is my number, put me on the call list.”
He does as I make my way to the door. My phone rings from a number I don’t recognize.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Strong, this is Barney. Vickie just gave me your message.”
I wave the phone at Mike and Yvette as I scurry outside. “Thanks, Barney. I have a quick question that will not compromise your investigation into Jason Stillman.” I plow on without giving him a chance to object. “Both Brian Yelito and Becky Steele told me she was too drunk to drive that night, and that is why he drove her home from the party.”
“Okay,” he says. He is not committing to an answer, just acknowledging me. I get it.
“But he told me she forgot her purse at the cabin, and he had to drive her back to fetch it. When they went back inside is when they discovered Jake dead.”
“That’s what he told me, too,” Barney says.
“You had them wait outside for the State Police to arrive.”
“Yep.”
“How long until the State Police released them to go home?”
“They let them go around two in the morning. Why?”
“Was she sober enough to drive herself home?”
“By then, she had calmed down, and she didn’t appear drunk.”
Barney wouldn’t let a drunk drive home if he could prevent. He might have even offered to give her a ride. I don’t want to think too deeply on that. “Thanks, Barney. I never asked Brian when I had the chance and I didn’t want to remind Becky of that night, so I thought I’d ask you.”
“Sure thing, Mrs. Strong.”
“Another thing, Barney.”
“What’s that?”
“If I find anything else out, I will let you know.”
“I think we can handle it from here,” he chuckles.
“I’m sure you can, Barney. I’m sure you can. Thanks again.”
I have my answers, and I am ready to move forward.