Upstairs Beth excused herself and went into the kitchen, leaving Clint in a small sitting room. Off to one side he saw two doorways he assumed led to small bedrooms. He wondered how two people could live up there.
“I don’t have coffee,” she called from the kitchen. “Will you take tea?”
“Sure.”
“And I have some cookies.”
“That sounds great.”
She came walking in a short time later, set down a tray of tea and cookies on the table in front of the sofa.
“Come sit here,” she said.
He obeyed, sitting next to her as she poured the tea into cups. The cookies were oatmeal, and they were very good.
“You make these?” he asked.
“Yes, I did . . . they were my father’s favorite.”
He stopped chewing and stared at her.
“No, no,” she said, “it’s fine. Keep eating them. I’d like them to be enjoyed.”
“Oh, okay,” he said, and continued to chew.
“So,” she said, “what did you find out downstairs?”
“Not much, I’m afraid,” he said. “I didn’t smell anything, or find anything, but if Jason is telling the truth, it looks like there was more than one killer.”
“How many?”
“At least two, a man and a woman,” Clint said.
“Maybe more?”
“Maybe.”
She picked up her cup and sipped her tea.
“If this is too difficult for you—”
“No, no,” she said, “not at all. What’s difficult for me is to think that I immediately blamed that poor boy for my father’s death, when I should have known better.”
“Should have?”
“I know that Jason is a sweet boy,” she said, “and that he has some . . . mental problems. He’d have no reason to kill my father. I just . . . I was upset, and when I was told he was the killer, I . . .it was just easier for me to believe it.”
“And who told you that?”
“Judge Miller.”
“Why would the judge tell you that and not the sheriff?”
“The judge came to my shop to tell me what happened,” she said. “He said he wanted to be . . . helpful.” She frowned. “That should have been another tip-off.”
“Oh? Why?”
“My father and Judge Miller were on the town council together,” she said, “and they never got along.”
“Is that a fact?” Clint said. He sipped some tea. “Who else is on the town council?”
“Well, there’s Daniel Thayer, Big Al Henry, a few other storekeepers. But most of the talking is usually done by Big Al, Thayer, the judge, and . . .”
“And your father?”
“Yes.”
“And tell me,” Clint said, “who did your father usually side with? When it came to voting, and making decisions?”
“Big Al and my dad were usually on one side, while the judge and Thayer were on the other.”
“That’s very interesting.”
“Are you saying my father was killed because of something that went on in town council meetings?”
“I don’t know,” Clint said. “Could be.”
“That poor boy,” she said again. “Can you get him out of jail?”
“Probably not,” Clint said. “Judge Miller is determined to try him. I can’t just get him out. I have to prove he didn’t do it, and then . . .”
“And then prove who did?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” she said, setting her cup down, “how can I help?”
“You’ve already helped,” he said.
“How?”
“By letting me into the store.”
“But you didn’t find anything.”
“I got a look at the scene of the crime,” Clint said. “I can see how Jason would have been choked if he put his head through the doorway. Especially if they were waiting for him.”
“Why would they wait for him?”
“To frame him.”
“Who would want to frame him for my father’s murder?” she asked.
“That’s the question,” he said.
“How are you going to get the answer?”
“By asking more questions.”
“Of whom?”
“Well,” he said “to start with, members of the town council.”
“Including Judge Miller?”
“Including Judge Miller.”
He swallowed the last bit of his second cookie and washed it down with the last of his tea.
“You’re going to go up against Judge Miller? In this town?” she asked.
“I’m going to do what I have to do to prove that boy innocent,” he said.
“If you go against the judge,” she said, “you’ll also be going against Daniel Thayer.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He owns a lot of businesses and buildings in town,” she said. “Some people think he’s richer than Big Al. Others don’t agree.”
“Well, I guess I can talk to Big Al about that, too,” Clint said. “Maybe the judge and Thayer arranged to have Jason framed for murder.”
“If you can prove that,” she said, “we’d be able to get rid of both of them.”
“Probably.”
“They won’t go easy, Mr. Adams.”
“Call me Clint.” He stood up. “Thank you for the tea and cookies, and for your cooperation.”
She also stood. She was tall, young, blond, very pretty—and in mourning.
“Do you think the sheriff would let me see Jason?” she asked. “I’d like to . . . apologize to him.”
“I’m sure he would.”
“I should also talk to the judge—”
“No,” Clint said, “don’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I’d like the judge to believe that you still blame Jason for your father’s murder,” Clint said.
“Oh . . . well, all right.”
“Go by the jail later today,” he said. “I’ll try to arrange for you to see Jason.”
“All right.”
“Can I go out this way?” he asked, pointing to the door that led to the outside staircase.
“Of course.”
He walked to the door and opened it.
“Clint, you should know one more thing.”
“What’s that?” he asked, turning back.
“Daniel Thayer has been trying to buy my father’s store for months.”
“And your father wouldn’t sell?”
“No, he wouldn’t.”
“You’re right, Beth,” he said. “That is something I should know.”