Chapter Thirty-seven

Standing in front of Gin’s candy shop, I checked my phone again. Seven fifteen? My friend was super late for our walk this morning and I’d done all the stretching I needed to. After a delightful early-morning wakeup, Tim had left me rosy-cheeked and cozied up in bed at four. I wouldn’t mind at all if Germain worked out as a weekend open-the-bakery kind of employee. And I might have to cancel my own Sunday morning walks, too.

I glanced around the side of Salty Taffy’s into Gin’s driveway, but her little red Honda was parked in the back. Was she sleeping in again? Too sick to cancel? I hadn’t missed a seasonal time change. That was back in March. We hadn’t confirmed our walk, but we never did. We only contacted each other if one of us couldn’t make it.

I texted Gin but got nothing in return. I was getting a bad feeling about this. When was Haskins going to finally catch Jake’s murderer so we all could stop worrying about it, stop watching our backs?

As I waited, I thought about my chat with Billy Crump last night. Jake’s circumstances certainly would have changed if he owned valuable real estate. He could have sold it. Or he could have sold most of it but built a house on a small parcel and not have to worry about either money or homelessness ever again, as long as he managed the funds well. It was all theoretical now, though. Had he had time to get a will written and notarized in the few days since he’d met Wendy? She would probably inherit the property, anyway, being his next of kin. Stephen had seen Jake at the county courthouse—but it had been with Katherine, not with Wendy. Had the older woman, if she was Wendy’s mother, been trying to convince him to hand over the property to Wendy now? He’d refused and she’d killed him? But how had she learned he’d inherited it? Too many questions, not enough answers. After my walk, maybe I’d see if I could pay Katherine a visit, myself.

The sunlight caught a glint of silver in the municipal parking lot next door to Gin’s driveway and postage-stamp backyard garden. Only a couple of trees and a low flower bed separated her property from the lot. I peered at the silver vehicle, then sauntered closer, trying to look casual. Was that Katherine Deloit’s car? It was the same color, and the same make as the one she’d had out on the Point. Then I spied the Cape Luxury Rentals decal. She was up and about early. Maybe she was at a coffee meeting with a real estate counterpart from this area closing the deal for her international client. I snapped a picture of the license plate on the back and texted it to Haskins in case he’d want to see it. I added a quick message.

Thought you’d be interested. Deloit car in municipal lot next to Salty Taffy’s.

But if she was Wendy’s mom and was hard up for money, why in the world would she rent a luxury car? Why hadn’t she simply driven over from Fall River in her own car? The working-class town was south of Providence west of here. The car was much more consistent with Katherine being the California real estate wheeler-dealer she acted—and dressed—like.

I glanced around the lot, wondering if Billy was lurking in the vicinity keeping an eye on Katherine. I didn’t see him anywhere. I supposed a good detective would have no problem staying out of sight while on surveillance. I headed back to the sidewalk in front of the shop. A brisk breeze made it chilly to stand in the shade, and I pulled my jacket sleeves down over my hands. I picked a sunny spot to stand in while I decided whether to wait longer or head out for my own walk. I shot Gin one more text before I left. This time she answered.

Delayed in shop kitchen. Door open.

I laughed at myself and slid the phone back into my bag. I hadn’t even tried the front door of the candy store. She usually didn’t open until eleven on Sundays.

I’d rarely been inside when the shop was closed and was impressed by how quiet it was. The air hung onto scent memories of sweetness, butter, chocolate. Twenty bins of colorful wrapped taffy lined up in a candy-lover’s dream. Behind gleaming glass cases blocks of fudge of all varieties waited patiently to be cut into cubes. Truffles in seashell shapes were displayed in boxes with cellophane windows. An earthenware crock held giant spiral lollypops. The tidy organization, clean floor, and polished surfaces were a dream to an OCDer like me.

“Gin? I’m here,” I called out as I pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen. Usually the candy-making room was busy with Gin hard at work in it making sweets.

She was in the kitchen, except she wasn’t stirring a vat of fudge. She wasn’t working ropes of taffy. She wasn’t rolling rum balls in cocoa. Straight ahead of me across the room my friend sat in an office chair. Her wrists were bound to the chair arms with heavy clear tape and a wide strip of it covered her mouth. Her wide eyes held terror.