Harper woke up smiling. She’d been walking on Cloud Nine ever since the day before, after talking with Simone. The only dark spot on her silver lining was somebody from the FBI asking questions about her. Simone hadn’t been able to give her many details, only that somebody named McKenna and his partner, whose name she couldn’t remember, had pulled her aside the night before and asked questions about Harper. Why in the world would anybody from the FBI be asking questions about her? She hadn’t done anything wrong. Hadn’t seen anybody else committing a crime, or even witnessed any accidents, though she doubted the FBI would be asking questions about something like that.
Rather than sitting back and letting questions overwhelm her, she did the only thing she could think of and called Antonio. If anybody could find out why the FBI wanted to know about her, Antonio Boudreau could find out.
It’s probably nothing. Maybe it’s somebody wanting another commission and they’re covering all their bases before hiring me. I’m not going to let this bother me. Today is a brand-new day full of possibilities.
Pouring her second cup of coffee, she opened her laptop, and opened her e-mail program. Way too many spam mails, junk she had no desire to buy, an updated report from the genealogy company where she’d had her profile done on a whim. They sent updated findings, somethings changing the ethnicities by a percentage point or two. Honestly, she rarely paid attention to it anymore.
Another e-mail from the insurance company where she worked, asking if she’d consider coming back full time. She couldn’t help rolling her eyes at that one. It was hard enough staying there part-time. Keeping away from Old Grabby-Hands made her want to quit, but she still needed the income to supplement what she made with her art. She closed that e-mail without answering. She’d deal with it tomorrow when she went into the office.
The last one was from her bank, showing the last wire transfer deposited into her account. Logging into her account, she did a fist bump when she looked at her balance. If she could get a couple more commissions like this, she’d have enough savings to quit the part-time job and be able to support herself doing what she loved.
Her meeting with Simone in Flagstaff felt promising. The gallery owner loved the two pieces Esme had shipped to Arizona. Proclaimed Harper had real talent, loved her composition and shading. Of course, she offered constructive criticism too, which she’d totally expected. While she might not be the best businesswoman around, she didn’t live with her head in the clouds either. The reality was very few people were able to make a decent living with their art. Making a great living, bringing in top dollar amounts and making a name in the industry. Rare as hen’s teeth.
Simone agreed to keep the two pieces on commission. Said she had a couple of clients who might be interested, and if they sold well, she’d consider carrying Harper’s work, and introducing her to some of her clients. This was an opportunity she couldn’t afford to turn down. Another step toward financial and artistic freedom. Couple that with the sweet deal she’d made with Ms. Patti for the cabin for her to work at, and she was walking on top of the clouds. The only fly in the ointment was Simone stated if she mentored Harper, she’d have to move to Arizona. That was a huge commitment, and one she really needed to think long and hard about.
Closing her laptop, she jumped at the brisk knock on her front door. She wasn’t expecting anybody. Most people would be in church now. After the flight home, she’d crashed and decided to sleep in.
Flinging open the front door, she was surprised to see Brian standing there. She’d enjoyed spending time with him at the coffee shop. He’d been nice, funny, and genuinely seemed like a nice guy. They’d passed each other a couple of times and waved but hadn’t really done more than say hello.
“Good morning, Harper.”
“Hi, Brian.”
She couldn’t help noticing he wasn’t smiling. In fact, his whole countenance seemed off. Hard, like he was trying to show as little emotion as possible. Had something happened? Was somebody hurt? Her brain immediately ran scenario after scenario, trying to figure why Brian would be on her doorstep.
“I need you to come with me to the sheriff’s office.”
“Rafe’s office? Why? Did something happen?”
“I have some questions and this interview needs to be on the record.”
“Interview? What kind of questions?”
Brian sighed and held up his hand, a badge open showing his credentials. FBI.
“My name is Brian McKenna and I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Your name has become associated with an ongoing case that I’m working. I need you to come with me and answer some questions.”
“McKenna? You’re the FBI agent who questioned Simone about me? What could I possibly know about one of your cases?”
“Ms. Westbrook, I will explain all this at the sheriff’s station. As I said, we need to get all your information taken down in an official interview.”
Harper felt a cold fist settle in the center of her stomach. He was acting so distant, so cold. Whatever this case was, the seriousness of his demeanor scared her. It felt like he was a stranger. Not somebody she’d laughed with, had coffee with. Had even asked Ms. Patti about, because she’d been attracted to the handsome man. Instead, this walled off, formal stranger sent a shiver of anxiety through her.
But she hadn’t done anything wrong. Not in a very long time. That part of her life was over and done, and she had no intention of ever visiting it again.
“It’s Ms. Westbrook now? Of course, forgive me. I’d be happy to meet you at the sheriff’s station. I need to take care of—”
“I need you to come with me now.” His voice softened slightly, the harsh edge disappearing. “Once we get your official statement, we can put this all behind us. Please, Harper, come with me.”
“Alright. I need to get some shoes and my purse.” Walking away, she left him standing in the open doorway and moved over to the kitchen counter, where she’d left her purse the night before when she’d gotten home. Picking it up, she shoved her keys inside the pocket where she kept them, and walked toward the front door, stopping long enough to slide on the shoes she’d kicked off the night before. Whenever she was home, she preferred being barefoot, loving the feeling of being grounded. The different textures of carpet, tile, and hardwood beneath her toes.
“Is this going to take long?”
“I can’t give you a specific timeframe. It depends on the information you’re able to provide.”
“I’ll help out in any way I can.”
“That’s all I can ask. Let’s go.”
It took about fifteen minutes to drive from her apartment to downtown. Brian parked in front of the sheriff’s office, right behind Rafe’s car. Drawing in a deep breath, she opened her door and climbed out, still unsure what information she might be able to provide to the FBI. She lived a boring life, rarely doing anything exciting. It consisted of working at the insurance company, which nobody in their right mind would call a hub of excitement. Then she painted. To her it was thrilling, excruciating, daunting, fulfilling, and she loved it. But, again, it wasn’t something that would concern the FBI.
Brian opened the door and ushered her through. Harper glanced around. She’d never been inside Rafe’s office before. The first thing she noticed was Sally Anne seated behind her desk, telephone headset on her head with the mouthpiece close to her mouth as she talked. Sally Anne was a fixture in Shiloh Springs and knew everybody and everything that happened in their little berg. Jill had introduced them months ago, and she’d hit it off with the older lady. She treated everybody like they were one of her kids, and Harper knew if she ever had a problem, she could call Sally Anne and she’d be there, no matter what. Having those kinds of friends was unique and special, and she valued each one she’d cultivated ever since she’d been in Shiloh Springs.
Sally Anne held up her hand in a wait-a-second motion, and after a couple seconds disconnected the call. Lunging from her seat, she pulled Harper into a hug, patting her on the back several times.
“Everything’s gonna be fine, sugar. They’re waiting for you in the big interview room. Last door on the left.”
“Thanks, Sally Anne.”
The farther she walked toward the back, the more it felt like she was a death row inmate, taking her final steps toward the electric chair. And wasn’t that a gruesome thought? She shook her head slightly, trying to figure out what the authorities though she possibly knew that might assist them. Because after wracking her brain, she hadn’t been able to come up with a single reason they’d want to talk with her. But she’d cooperate, and they’d figure out she didn’t know anything.
Stopping in the open doorway, she spotted Rafe and Antonio, standing beside a huge white board mounted on one wall, at the head of the long table. They were talking quietly and hadn’t noticed her yet. Antonio shook his head at something Rafe said. Rafe started to say something else, but spotted her in the doorway and stopped, nodding toward her. Antonio spun around and walked toward her, his hand out.
“Harper, thank you for coming.”
“I wasn’t aware I had much choice.”
Antonio shot a glare at Brian. Since he was standing behind her, she couldn’t see what his reaction was, but Antonio frowned at him before taking her arm gently and leading her over to the table. Off to the side, she noticed a video recorder on a tripod.
“I thought interrogation rooms all had cameras mounted in the corners, like on television.”
“Maybe in the big city. Shiloh Springs doesn’t have the budget for that kind of equipment. Besides, this room is used for attorneys to talk with their clients, and that needs to be private. This camera will work fine.”
“You’ll be taping us? I thought I was just going to answer a few questions for one of Mr. McKenna’s cases.” She didn’t miss Brian’s wince at her mentioning him by his surname. He’d been the one to make things formal, she was simply following his lead.
“Please, Harper, make yourself comfortable.” Rafe pulled out a chair and she sank onto it. She wanted to get this over, move on with the rest of her day. A sudden thought popped into her head and out of her mouth before she could stop it.
“Do I need a lawyer?”
Rafe glanced at Brian. “If you feel you need an attorney present, Ms. Westbrook, we can make arrangements for one. Unless you have an attorney of record, and we can contact them.”
Antonio leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “Tell him you want Chance Boudreau as your attorney of record. Since this isn’t a case that the Shiloh Springs district attorney will be prosecuting, he can represent you.”
She stared up at Antonio, that sense of dread she’d felt earlier rushing back, and she clenched her hands into fists.
“Mr. McKenna, I’d like Chance Boudreau to be contacted to represent me before I answer any questions.”
“Awesome,” Rafe answered. “Let me take care of that little detail for you.” Rafe walked to the doorway and hollered, “Chance, you’re up.”
Before Harper could close her mouth, Chance Boudreau strolled into the interrogation room, his dark navy suit pristine and sharp, a light blue striped shirt complimented with a solid red tie. His blond hair shone under the fluorescent lights, and the beige Stetson atop his head somehow completed the picture of the consummate professional. Harper knew Chance. Who didn’t if they lived in Shiloh Springs? He’d been the assistant district attorney and was elected to fill the position of district attorney when the previous one had retired. From the way his family talked about him, he was a decent and fair prosecutor. Now he was going to be her attorney? Things had suddenly got very real.
“Hello, Harper. I understand you’d like me to represent you?”
“Um, yes?”
He smiled, and she could see the shark behind his eyes, and a little bit of her relaxed. Nobody was going to mess around with her, not with Chance in the room.
“Great. Let’s get this over with. Momma wants everybody at the Big House later for lunch.” He shot Brian a glare. “Even you.” Laying a yellow legal pad on the table, Chance slid onto the seat beside hers, and squeezed her clasped hands. “Everything’s going to be alright. Don’t worry. Just answer Brian’s questions truthfully, and we’ll figure out what’s happening and work through it, okay?”
“Okay. Do you have any idea what he wants to know? Because I don’t have a clue.”
“I know a little, but it’s better for you to let him ask the questions. If he asks anything that goes too far, I’ll shut him and this interview down.”
“Alright. Let’s do it.”
Antonio and Rafe took seats across from Harper, and she felt a little more comfortable with them in the room. She’d been afraid they’d leave, and she’d be alone with Brian. Mr. McKenna. She wasn’t sure at this point what to call him because everything was topsy-turvy and up was down in her head.
Brian turned on the camera and took a seat at the head of the table. She felt like she was suddenly in the middle of a spotlight, even though there wasn’t any glaring light shining on her. Sometimes her imagination played tricks on her. Part of being an eccentric, creative type.
“This interview is taking place in the Shiloh Springs Sheriff’s office on Sunday, September twenty-first at 10 a.m. Present are Rafe Boudreau, Shiloh Springs County Sheriff, Antonio Boudreau, FBI, Chance Boudreau, attorney, and Harper Westbrook. Ms. Westbrook, would you state your address and birthdate for the record, please.”
Harper rattled off the information, her insides clenched in fear.
Brian asked a few more mundane questions. Where did she work? How long had she worked there? How long had she lived in Shiloh Springs. Asked questions about her family, where she’d lived before moving here. What did any of this matter?
“You’re an artist, is that correct?”
“Yes. Mostly paintings, landscapes and still lifes. Occasional portraits, although those aren’t something I do much because I’m not good at doing people.”
“I’d like to talk to you about the last two days, Ms. Westbook. Where were you?”
“I was in Flagstaff, Arizona. My friend, Esme Dubois, arranged for us to attend a charity auction at an exclusive gallery. That was Friday night. Saturday morning, I had an appointment with Simone—she’s the owner of the gallery—about possibly featuring some of my work in her gallery.”
“You flew into Flagstaff on Friday?”
“That’s right. We arrived about 1 p.m. The charity event was at seven. We checked into our hotel and got dressed. We hired a car to take us to the event.”
“How long did you stay at the gallery?”
Harper tilted her head, wondering where this line of questioning was headed. There hadn’t been anything unusual about Friday night, other than it was a swanky affair, something she never felt comfortable attending, but knew she needed to get over her shyness, because when she became famous, she’d have to attend these types of things.
“Several hours.”
Chance reached over and patted her hand, and she shot him a grateful look. She felt better knowing he was there and would keep her from making a fool of herself. Because she had the feeling Brian was only getting started and feared that he was about to hit her with a bombshell.
“Did you meet many new people there?”
“Mr. McKenna, where is this line of questioning going? You’ve danced around and Ms. Westbrook has answered every question. If you’re looking for something specific, let’s get to the point.” Chance stared at Brian, and Harper heard the thread of steel beneath his remarks. She was glad she wasn’t on the other end of Chance’s questioning, because if he went after her, she’d probably wet herself.
“Alright, Mr. Boudreau.” Brian turned his attention back to Harper. “Let me be more specific. On Friday evening, did you meet a man by the name of Jeremiah Wilson?”
Harper noticed the almost imperceptible stiffening of Antonio’s body. Apparently, he knew something she didn’t. And whatever it was, wasn’t good.
“I did meet Mr. Wilson. We discussed one of the abstracts by a local artist. He was interested in the piece and intended to place a bid. He asked my opinion of the piece. We chatted for about five minutes, and he left to place his bid. That’s it.”
“Did you see him again after that?”
Harper shook her head. “No. I mingled with the crowd, walked through the two rooms. Chatted with Esme, who said that she was going back to the hotel, but she wanted me to stay. To talk with Simone.”
“Was that unusual, for Ms. Dubois to leave you to fend for yourself with an exclusive gallery owner? Isn’t Ms. Dubois your mentor? Why would she leave you to your own devices at something as important to your up-and-coming career?”
“I’m not sure I’m following your line of questioning, Mr. McKenna, but I’ll answer. Esme wasn’t feeling well. She wanted to go back to the hotel and take some aspirin and try to get some sleep, so she’d be fresh for our meeting the next morning. Esme insisted I stay, because she knows I’m not comfortable in big crowds, and she knew I had to fight my instinct to run away.”
“But you did run away, didn’t you, Ms. Westbrook? You left the gallery before 10 p.m., isn’t that correct?”
Harper’s body jerked at his accusation, even though it was true. She had snuck away, because she’d felt the walls closing in on her, and like a coward she’d called for a driver and snuck out the back. She hadn’t noticed anybody watching her, so how had he known?
“Again, Mr. McKenna, what is the point of the question?” Chance shot the question back at Brian. “Ms. Westbrook simply left a charity function early. That is not a crime.”
“No, but murder is.”