Sitting in a cramped, cell-like room, I leaned my elbows on the table, attempting to look calm. A large mirror dominated the opposite wall, and I knew they were watching me through one-way glass.
The door swung open, and I jumped.
Sutter and Logan entered and sat in the two empty seats across from me.
Sutter opened a folder he’d brought with him and slid a mug shot across the table at me. “Tell me about Charlotte.” His voice slithered across my skin.
An icy chill froze me in place as I looked into my own eyes in the picture.
When I didn’t speak, Sutter continued. “Embezzlement and murder. These are interesting charges, considering this morning’s events.”
I raised my gaze to meet his squarely, my jaw firm, and I hoped I didn’t look like the trembling bag of Jell-O I felt like. “I was acquitted of all charges.”
Another grunt. “So you were. But you haven’t been acquitted for the murder this morning.”
The room spun. “Why do you feel my uncle’s death was murder?”
“We’re not completely sure yet.” Logan shot a glare at Sutter.
Good cop, bad cop. Now I knew who played each part.
Grunt.
Did Sutter have a throat condition of some sort that caused him to continually grunt? The noise grated on my already frayed nerves.
“They never solved the Charlotte crimes, Ms. Quinn. I find that interesting.” Sutter reached out and slid the mug shot back across the table to place it in his folder. “Your acquittal could simply mean you had a good lawyer and the police didn’t have enough evidence. Yet.”
“Or it could mean I am actually innocent. What happened in Charlotte is in the past. It has no bearing on what happened today.” I straightened in my chair, refusing to be intimidated any longer. “Am I under arrest?”
Grunt. “Not at this time.” Grunt. Sutter leaned forward, his glare menacing. “But don’t plan on leaving town.”
I nodded and rose. No reason to blurt out that I knew the whole “don’t leave town” thing was blowing smoke. I wasn’t under arrest, and I could legally go wherever I wanted. However, I also knew leaving town would add to his reasons to think I had killed my uncle. And it wasn’t like I had anywhere to actually go.
As I walked from the station to my car, I pulled up local hotels and motels on my phone, hunting the lowest possible price. I located Hokes Folly Budget Inn, a private inn named after the town rather than a chain. I drove to the outskirts of town and pulled into the parking lot.
Door chimes jingled when I entered the lobby, and an elderly man popped out from the back room.
“Welcome to Hokes Folly, miss. Would you like a room?”
I looked around a lobby full of worn but clean furniture, windows that sparkled, and healthy plants and figured the place had to be better than the last motel I’d stayed in. We spoke briefly, and after exchanging money for a key, I had a place to sleep for the night that didn’t eat up all of my remaining funds.
My stomach rumbled, and I realized I’d never gotten the chance to eat breakfast. The clock on the nightstand read 3:23. If I played it right, I could get by on one meal today, saving more money for later. I headed out the door in search of a McDonald’s and their famous value menu.
Two cheeseburgers later, I was full and exhausted from the day’s emotional roller coaster, and I crumpled into an exhausted heap on the bed. Covers over my head, I fell into a restless sleep, tossing and turning for most of the night.
Around six AM, I rose and grabbed a shower. When I was dry and dressed, I reached for my phone—my one splurge on my dwindling budget—and placed a call, pacing the floor while I talked.
After a few rings, a low, soothing voice answered. “Quinn residence.”
“Dad?” A lump rose in my throat as the overwhelming need to run home and hide plowed over me.
“Jenna. It’s great to hear from you. How was your trip?”
I could almost hear a smile in his voice. “The trip was fine. Is Mom around?” Uncle Paul had been married to Mom’s older sister until Aunt Irene lost a battle with cancer nearly a decade ago.
“Your mom is a little … under the weather right now. She’s napping upstairs. Is everything okay?”
I sighed deeply. There was no easy way to do this. “Dad, Uncle Paul is dead.”
“What?” my father gasped out. “How?”
“The police don’t know yet. He was dead when I got here, but I didn’t know it until yesterday morning. I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner, but I didn’t know how to tell you …” I let my voice trail off, at a loss for anything else to say. I refused to add that the police thought I might have killed him. That would crush them after all that had happened. I didn’t want to worry them unless it was unavoidable.
Dad cleared his throat and sniffed loudly a few times, and it was all I could do not to bawl like a baby as I listened to him fight his own tears.
“I’ll tell your mother when she wakes up.” His voice trembled, and he cleared his throat again. “Will you be coming home?”
“Not yet.” What reason could I give for staying without spilling the beans about the police? “I want to stay for the funeral. Will you be coming up?”
“I’m sure we’ll try, but your mother just isn’t feeling well right now.” Dad sniffed one last time. “I’ll let you know.”
“Okay. Tell Mom I hope she feels better soon.”
“Jenna?”
I swallowed hard. “Yes?”
“I love you. This isn’t your fault either.”
I barely managed the “I love you too” around the ever-growing lump in my throat.
After we hung up, I pictured him letting his grief flow. At least I hoped he wasn’t bottling it up. I knew he’d stifle it at some point to be strong for Mom.
I flopped onto the bed, tucking my bare feet under the blanket, and reached for the TV remote, hoping to find something to watch to distract my mind. When I turned the TV on, the news was just starting.
“Thank you for joining me, Connie Dunne—”
“And me, Jonathan Greer,” piped in her co-anchor.
“—here on Channel Five Morning News for weather updates and the news to start your day,” the anchorwoman continued. “The top story this half hour is the death of Hokes Folly business owner Paul Baxter.”
I grabbed the remote and turned up the volume.
The bottle blonde droned on in that newsy tone so many anchors used. “Yesterday morning, the body of Paul Baxter was discovered lying at the bottom of a set of spiral stairs leading from his business, Baxter’s Book Emporium, to his apartment above. His niece, who allegedly arrived just before two AM, claims to have been looking for him in the apartment and found him dead.”
An outraged gasp left me as my mug shot from Charlotte flashed on the screen.
The camera panned to Jonathan Greer. “Ms. Quinn, recently acquitted of murder and embezzlement in Charlotte, remains a person of interest in Baxter’s death. At this time, it is not confirmed whether she is or is not a beneficiary of Baxter’s will. However, sources report the law firm involved is the long-standing firm of Grimes and Waterford. The police are still investigating, and sources state they have strong reason to believe Baxter’s death was not accidental. More on this story tonight at six.”
A commercial for teeth whitener took over the screen, and I turned the TV off. Who were Grimes and Waterford? And what if I was in Uncle Paul’s will? If I was, it meant two things. First, I might not be destitute anymore. Second, I now really did seem to have had a motive for killing my uncle.
I grabbed my phone, googled Grimes and Waterford in Hokes Folly, and called the phone number on their website to set an appointment. I had to get to the bottom of all of this before I ended up arrested for murder. Again.