Had Shannon Claremore just threatened me? I replayed the sentence in my mind—dissected her tone of voice, cadence, the places in which she paused. I really wouldn’t if I were you. It wasn’t an explicit threat like, “Drop it or else,” but it felt like she was almost begging me to let it go. What I didn’t know was if that was for my benefit or hers.
Given that the last two people who had looked into the Claremore/Miller connection were dead, I decided it was a good idea to let a member of law enforcement know about this, even if I didn’t really have anything concrete to tell them. I called Sheriff Clark and gave him a rundown on my odd conversation with Shannon.
“And you felt she was threatening you?”
I bristled at his tone, which was somewhere between amused and skeptical. “I don’t know if she was or not, but it felt like it.”
“All right.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll make a note, but there’s not a lot I can do about a veiled threat by one person against another person—neither of whom live in my county.”
“I just thought…” I said, suddenly feeling very foolish. “It’s just that Joe Tackett called me this morning and said he’s worried that he might get killed by the cartel’s spies, and so he gave me this weird clue about Shannon Claremore not being who she says she is—”
“Wait—what?” He interrupted me. “Back up.”
I filled him in about Tackett’s phone call earlier and his accusation that Shannon Claremore is hiding something and how he was worried about his safety in prison and was looking to tell his story as soon as possible. That seemed to get the sheriff’s attention.
“I think I ought to call Lindsey Davis,” he said. “Maybe I should go over to Greensville and talk to Tackett sooner than later.”
“Yeah, great.” I was surprised by his sudden enthusiasm. “I think the sooner we can find out what he knows, the better. But if he’s worried about the appearance of talking to the authorities, wouldn’t that just exacerbate the situation?”
“I can arrange it with the warden so no one would know he was being pulled out to talk to me.”
“Wow,” I said, surprised and happy at the same time. “Do you think you could get in to see him today?”
“It’s possible.”
If Sheriff Clark was able to talk to Tackett today, I could be hours away from finding out the truth. It was almost too much to hope for. “Will you let me know what he says?”
“I can’t make any promises.” His tone was clipped, but after a beat he added, more softly, “But if I can, yes.”
We hung up with promises to talk again soon. I couldn’t believe that this might work—emphasis on might. With the roads being what they were, Lindsey would not be able to get to Brunswick County today even if she wanted to, so if she insisted on being present for the interview, it would be a no-go. But since Sheriff Clark would be the one who would need to follow up on any information Tackett gave regarding Flick’s death, she might allow him to get first crack, especially given his fear that he was in imminent danger. Of course, I also knew it was possible Tackett made up that whole “danger” thing to speed up the process. And while I hated to think it might have worked, I hated the idea of his secrets dying with him even more.
Energized by the sudden turn of events, I suddenly felt restless. I had been stuck in my house for less than twenty-four hours because of the weather and I was already getting cabin fever. This is why I could never live in upstate New York. Well, that and the fact that I doubted you could get a decent sweet tea anywhere north of DC. I stared out my bedroom window searching for signs of life. None of the three driveways I could see had any tire tracks on them, and it looked like the only cars that had been down my street were Holman’s and Ash’s.
There were two sets of footprints leading away from Oliver Pruitt’s front door, one human and one canine. From the looks of it, Pruitt had braved the weather for his beloved dog, Chortle. Chortle, in all her ginger-furred glory, was the Juliette to Coltrane’s Romeo. They absolutely adored each other. Oliver and I…not so much. He’d lived in this neighborhood for eons and used to complain that Granddad didn’t cut his grass short/often/well enough back when Granddad was alive. I’ll never forget when he came to my door on the day I moved in. I assumed he was there to welcome me to the neighborhood or possibly to say he was sorry to hear about Albert’s death, but instead, when I opened the door, he simply handed me a wooden ruler and said, “Two and a half inches is the optimal height for Kentucky bluegrass.” Ever since then, our relationship had been chilly. But our dogs loved each other and, on the not-so-rare occasions when Coltrane would get out without his leash, he would run straight over to Mr. Pruitt’s front door and start barking. It was sweet—the lovesick-canine version of throwing pebbles. Mr. Pruitt did not find it nearly as cute as I did. The last time it happened, his exact words were, “Keep your mongrel away from my little princess.” I wanted to snap back something about who names their “little princess” Chortle, but I kept my mouth shut. Silence is the better part of valor, after all, and it wasn’t the dog’s fault she’d been given a name that sounded like someone choking on a chicken bone.
Desperate for some fresh air, I geared up with two coats, a hat, mittens, and my warmest boots to take Coltrane for a walk. I knew my look was slightly more insane bag lady than I was used to, but I was prioritizing warmth over fashion. Once I was sufficiently outfitted, instead of our usual route around the neighborhood, I took us toward town to see what was going on around the square. I figured the paths in Memorial Park had the best chance of being shoveled or salted, since it was the heart of Tuttle Corner.
I was wrong; they hadn’t been touched. I guess the town had used most of its resources in other areas. Since there was no one around to mind, I let Coltrane off his leash so he could run through the park. The exercise would do him good. Most of the shops and businesses looked closed, except for Mysa. I was too far away to see much, but I could tell their lights were on and it looked like there were some people sitting at the tables by the windows. I should have known that Ridley wouldn’t let a little thing like Mother Nature turning into Queen Elsa come between her and her customers.
Coltrane and I made our way in that direction, partially because I wasn’t quite ready to go home yet and partially because a cup of Swedish hot cocoa sounded like heaven. As we got closer, I could see that although it wasn’t as busy as it would normally be on a Friday during the breakfast shift, there were several people inside. Mayor Lancett and her weaselly nephew/personal assistant Toby sat at one of the tables by the window—she was reading the Times and he was looking down at his phone. I couldn’t see his shirt, but he was wearing a black beanie that read “Gym Beast.” At the table next to them, Jonathan Gradin and Mel Druing were deep into a game of Scrabble, and Skipper Hazelrigg sat at a corner table by himself with a yellow notepad and his laptop, probably working on his campaign.
Ryan was chatting with a man at the counter, and Ridley stood beside him laughing at something the man must have said. I knew I couldn’t bring Coltrane through the front entrance without Mayor Lancett having a complete breakdown (her stance on no animals inside businesses was well known: “Are we in Paris, France? I don’t think so!”), so I knocked on the front window hoping to get Ryan’s or Ridley’s attention and they could let us in the back, or maybe even just bring me a hot cocoa to go. As soon as I knocked, every head in the place turned, including the man Ryan had been talking to at the counter. I was surprised to see it was Jay. Jay again. Jay still here in Tuttle. He said he was leaving. Curiosity got the better of me, and I opened the door and marched inside.
Mayor Lancett jumped up out of her seat. “Oh no, Riley Ellison, you cannot bring that anim—”
“Just a minute, Shaylene,” I said as I walked past her and right up to Jay. “Hey.”
“Hi, Riley,” he said with a warm smile, as if his hanging around Tuttle Corner every day was a normal occurrence.
Coltrane whined with excitement, and Ryan rushed out from behind the counter. He shot me a look and murmured, “Geez, Riley. Right in front of the mayor? I’ll take him to the back.”
I started to apologize, but Ridley cut me off. “It’s fine,” she said. “I’ll send over a banana Nutella crepe and she will forget all about it.” She winked at me as she, Ryan, and Coltrane went through the swinging door to the back.
“I’m surprised you’re still here.” I crossed my arms in front of my chest, suddenly remembering I had sixty-four layers on. I must have looked deranged.
“The roads were too slick to drive home last night, so I got a room at the Ottoman Inn. Heather and Mike were thrilled to see me. I think I’m the only guest there right now.”
“Are you sure that’s the reason?” The snow had stopped at least an hour earlier, and while I’m sure road conditions weren’t ideal, there had been plenty of time for the main highways to be cleared and treated. He wasn’t stuck here. There had to be another reason Jay hadn’t left Tuttle Corner.
He let out a little laugh and swiveled his eyes to the side. “Um, yeah. What do you mean?”
“I just get the feeling there’s something else going on. You’re working on something to do with Tackett.”
Jay put his hands into his pockets and shrugged. The very picture of innocence.
“Okay,” I said. “If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine.”
Ridley came out from the back holding a plate filled with the most delicious-looking crepes topped with powdered sugar and thinly sliced bananas. “I call this the ‘All Is Forgiven,’” she said as she floated past us to deliver the plate to Mayor Lancett.
“Well, hope you make it home before spring,” I said with more than a little sarcasm and started to walk into the back to retrieve my dog.
Jay grabbed my arm as I passed. “What’s the matter? Why’re you so mad at me?”
I looked down at his hand on my arm. He released it immediately.
“You are actively standing between me and the thing I want most in the world.”
“This isn’t personal, Riley.”
“It is to me,” I said, then spun on my heels without so much as a backward glance, momentarily reveling in my own self-righteousness.
Coltrane was happily chomping on a large bone in a small room right off the back door of the restaurant. Ryan sat in a nearby chair watching him.
“Sorry I brought him in here,” I said. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
Ryan looked up. “You okay?”
I lifted a shoulder and let it drop. “There’s just a lot going on right now with…stuff.”
“Yeah, I figured.” He paused. “Are you and Jay getting back together or something?”
I hadn’t thought about it before, but Ryan and Ridley probably thought the issue Jay and I were fighting about was a personal one. “No—he’s here for work.”
“And you’re upset about that because…”
I shrugged again. “It’s complicated.”
“Does this have to do with Sheriff Tackett?”
That got my attention. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason, I just overheard Jay on the phone, and I swear I heard him say the name Joe Tackett.”
“Do you remember what he said about him?”
“Not really. I wasn’t trying to listen in. I just heard him on the phone when I was refilling the pastry case.”
“Think.” I took a step closer. “It could be really important.”
Ryan was quiet as he tried to remember the details of what he’d heard. “I think he said something about going to see Tackett in prison before…”
“Before what?”
He ran a hand through his hair and rested it on top of his head. “God, I just can’t remember…I think he said, ‘Thanks for letting me know,’ and then—” Ryan broke off for a minute as he thought—“he said something like, ‘We should get in there before he talks to her.’ Does that mean anything to you?”
Before he talks to her. That had to be Lindsey Davis. “Yes, it actually does.” I grabbed the bone out of Coltrane’s mouth and picked up his leash. “Thank you so much, Ryan. You have no idea how helpful you’ve been.”
“Are you the ‘her’ he was referring to?” Ryan asked as he followed me to the back door.
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“Good. The whole thing sounded kinda ominous.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. It was like the way he said it or something. ‘We need to get the information before he talks to her.’” He sounded like he was doing an impression from Goodfellas.
“Wait.” I stopped. “He said, ‘We need to get the information’?”
Ryan nodded. “I’m almost positive.”
“Any clue who he was talking to? Did he say any names at all other than Tackett’s?”
Ryan looked like he was concentrating so hard, I thought he might sprain something. After a few seconds, he said, “I think he said, ‘Thanks, Mike’ before hanging up. I’m not a hundred percent, because like I said I wasn’t paying a ton of attention, but we just hired Mike Skelton as a busboy, so the name must have caught my ear.”
I didn’t want to jump to conclusions, because Mike was about as common a name as you could get, but I did anyway. I wasn’t three steps out the back door of Mysa before I had my phone in hand dialing the number of Sheriff Michael Clark.