After a fruitless search of Melina’s office (with no sign of the threatening correspondence Alphonse Brunbaugh had been seeking, unfortunately, so not even that to use against him), the fact we turned up zilch as to a connection between the coach and any kind of doping scandal, Liz next led me to the rider’s quarters. I felt a brief tingle of guilt over the fact I’d been spending all this time on the case and none at all at Petunia’s, leaving everything to Daisy, Mom and the staff, but when I texted my bestie to apologize while I followed Liz across the compound to the apartments, her reply made me grin.
All’s quiet on the Petunia’s front! She included a cute little pug emoji she’d downloaded onto our phones to share. Have fun catching the murderer!
That was Day in a nutshell. Nut being the operative part of the word. Though, I had to admit as I put my phone away, she of all people knew just how much fun I had when there was a mystery to solve, so her wording wasn’t exactly off book.
So if she was nuts, what did that make me?
Jimmy was nowhere to be found, likely working with his horse. Or disposing of evidence he’d killed Melina? Naw, if the kid was going to do that, surely he’d have done so right after the murder, right? Still, as I sifted through his life, knowing the techs had been over his room with their fine-tooth combing already, I wondered what motive he might have.
“Was she his coach?” I glanced at Liz who was studying a photo of Jimmy. She set down the wooden frame with a thump before frowning at me as if I’d interrupted and she was looking for an answer in her brilliant brain.
“I’m assuming you’re referring to the victim and Mr. Hogan.” Right, I had been pretty vague, but she’d sorted things out thanks to the context of our present location. “Yes, as far as I know. We can check, though. You’re thinking what, exactly?”
“Nothing yet,” I said, setting aside a small stack of golf shirts. We’d been here before, and I’d been forced to go through Jimmy’s messy laundry already. I suppressed the need to sigh, to ask Liz what she hoped to find. Only to hear her expel air in a rush while she turned to me, as if reading my mind.
“There’s nothing here,” she said. “I’m chasing ghosts, I think. But I can’t shake the feeling, despite not having any evidence, Mr. Hogan is hiding something.”
“I’m more than willing to trust your gut, Liz,” I said. “Want to chase it down?”
She grinned. “I do,” she said. “Thanks, Fee. You sound like Turner and that’s what I need right now. The chance to chase the idea without the influence of these surroundings.” She slipped free of her gloves, gesturing at the door. “After you, Deputy Fleming. I think your apartment fridge has a beer in it with my name on it.”
That’s how we found ourselves, about a half hour later, perched on the stools in my private kitchen, sipping from chilled bottles and hunched over her notes. Early afternoon sunlight streamed in my widows, enough dust motes floating I realized I really needed to do a thorough cleaning of my apartment.
I will admit, within just a few minutes of attempting to review the case, we ended up talking about something much more personal.
“You’re good for him.” Liz started it, downing her first beer and half draining her second before she wandered off topic. She squinted at me a long time, pointing with her index finger, the bottle in her hand balanced between her thumb and the rest of her digits. “Very good. I wasn’t sure at first. Thought he lost his edge.” She let the glass bottom thud to the countertop, faint regret on her face. “I’m sorry about that, Fee. He means a lot to me. We’ve been through so much together. I feel kind of…”
“Protective?” I didn’t wait for her rueful nod. “Me too. I get it, Liz. Honest.” And I did, because I felt the same way.
“Don’t ever tell him I said it,” she laughed. “He’d be pissed at me. He’s the one who likes to do the protecting.”
“Tell me about it.” I eye rolled and laughed in turn. “Did he tell you how we met?”
Liz giggled, totally uncharacteristic. “He did,” she said, eyes sparkling. “When you were kids.”
Oops. Right. He remembered me, though I honestly had no recollection of him as a child, when he and his father came to Reading to look for the treasure. Which made me think about the hoard and, oddly, have a flashback moment to something I wasn’t expecting.
Standing on a dock, the dripping Vivian in my arms, screaming. And a shadow that I turned to look up at, a shadow who spun and ran away and let Victor drown—
I jerked out of the memory and took a shaking breath. Why did thinking about my childhood—and not remembering Crew’s part in it—trigger that particular memory? The obvious answer tried to smother me in panic, but I shook it off. I’d already had this same instance surface, with Dad, right? Maybe being around men woke it up. Which told me the shadow was male…? Perhaps. But any thought at all that the shadowy figure had been Crew?
No way. Just no.
Liz was watching me with her FBI agent face. I waved off her quiet calm with a shaking breath. Before telling her about Vivian, Victor, that day. The shadow figure. And the recurring nightmare that plagued me, the memory that had only woken recently despite the fact everyone in town, it seemed, knew all about the fact I’d been there when Victor drowned.
Liz finished her beer before commenting, rising to go to the fridge to retrieve two more, returning with sodas instead, handing one to me which I accepted. We were on duty, after all. She sat again and spoke with a deeply thoughtful tone in her voice.
“Whoever let that boy die,” she said, “it wasn’t your fault, Fee. But that’s what you’re holding onto, isn’t it?” I gulped, nodded. “You saved the girl instead of her brother and you feel guilty you had to choose.”
I did. But Victor made me. Right? My memories from that day were so clouded by fear, by time’s passage, but my own suppression of what happened. Could I even trust what I was recalling? If I, for instance, actually asked Vivian what she could tell me about the events of that day, what would she say?
And did I have the courage to broach the topic?
After all this time, did it matter who it was let Victor French drown?
“I can understand why you suppressed it,” Liz said, softly, kind. “Honestly, I understand. There have been enough times I’ve asked myself if I could have done more, second guessed my role in shootings, even though I knew—knew—I did everything by the book, the way I was supposed to.” She sipped soda before going on. “Guilt sucks, Fee. Not just because it’s toxic, but because it can distort the truth to the point it makes us think we’re in the wrong and just won’t ever let us forget it.” Liz tapped the side of her can with her fingers. “As long as we don’t resort to unhealthy ways to hide from it, though, I figure we’re winning.” She set her drink down at last, leaning on her elbows. “I know enough agents and cops who’ve succumbed to their guilt I do my best to let it go. But for a little kid to have to carry that kind of burden?” Liz sat back at last, scrutiny uncomfortable because it was so compassionate. “You talked to Turner about it?”
I shook my head. “My parents, to a point.” Why hadn’t I mentioned it to Crew? Easy answer, the one Liz was just talking about. Guilt kept me from sharing, hadn’t it? And, despite knowing better, the worry he might judge me for my failure. Perceived failure. Whatever.
“Tell him.” She pushed the half empty can of soda away with a grimace. “He deserves to have the chance to tell you it wasn’t you fault.”
I smiled, faint and a little fluttery with emotion, but planned to take her advice. “How’d you get so wise?”
Liz laughed then, running her hands over the thickness of her ponytail and tossing it back over the shoulder of her white dress shirt. “Is that what you call it?”
I shrugged. “I wish I was more like you.” Whoops. Where did that come from? “Instead of running off half-cocked with my temper getting the best of me.”
The agent’s eyes narrowed, teeth working on the inside of her lip. “There are times I wished I was a redhead,” she said. “That I just want to let my temper out. So there.”
I thought about the box of hair dye in the trash at the stable and grinned. “Maybe we could give Crew a shock,” I said. “Switch colors. Wonder what I’d look like as a brunette?”
Liz froze, stared at me, mouth hanging open. “What did you say?”
I fumbled over repeating the joke but she was already reaching for her phone, tapping in her password, swearing softly under her breath while she searched for something. I watched in bemusement while her face twisted from frown to wide-eyed delight and the sharp, “Ah-ha!” that passed her lips was accompanied by a flash of her cell’s screen.
A familiar face filled it, but one with blond hair, green eyes, as opposed to the brown-gazed brunette I was used to.
“We have to go back to the center,” Liz said.
***
He looked nervous to see us, dropping the brush he used on his horse when Liz entered the stable. Jimmy patted the shoulder of the big gelding who shuffled his hooves in clear response to his rider’s discomfort, soothing the creature back to quiet.
Did he know the agent uncovered his secret? He must have. The dejected expression on his face appeared almost immediately, even before Liz stopped with her hand sliding softly over the big horse’s nose as she spoke.
“Hello, Jimmy,” she said. “Or should I say, Edward Worth?” His head hung instantly. “I think it’s time you tell us why you’re pretending to be someone you’re not.”
We’d spent the drive in silence while Liz kept the details to herself and I fumed a bit. Felt like Dad and Crew all over again. Though, to be honest, she looked like she was having so much fun it would have been a shame to make her spill.
But as she identified the young rider as a fraud, I shed my disgruntled irritation. Right about the same moment Jimmy/Edward looked up—and bolted.
He threw the brush in Liz’s face, spun and ran the other way. I’m not sure where he thought he was going to go. But running like that? Yup, sure made him look guilty of more than him being an imposter.
Liz chased him toward the back door while my instincts drove me sideways, into the nearest empty stall and through the big, gaping window into the yard. I ran for the back of the building, circling the end just as Jimmy came hurtling around it and crashed into him.
I wish I could say I took him down with my expert moves and physical prowess. But nope, all I succeeded in doing was slowing him to the point Liz caught up. As I toppled over backward from the impact with his slightly taller and heavier body, his hands shoving against my shoulders to aid in my fall, I collapsed into the manure pile while Jimmy tried to regain his momentum.
Liz leaped, landing on his back, sending him sprawling into the pile beside me. And while I was disgusted by the fact I was now sitting in a giant heap of horse dung, at least I wasn’t face-first.
The agent pushed off, letting him rise just slightly, her knee in his back, cuffs coming out and rattling as she slapped them on his wrists.
“Mr. Edward Worth,” she said, “you’re under arrest for fraud and, quite possibly, the murder of Melina Canty.”
***