Chapter 20
Except that was not an older-model Volvo wagon parked behind Miss M, my red sports car. It wasn’t Tim’s car. Whom did it belong to?
My heart thudding, I quickly locked the tiny house door behind me. I wouldn’t let anybody trap me inside ever again.
I stared at the sleek black sedan. Had I ever seen it before? I didn’t think so. It didn’t belong to a friend or even an acquaintance. Should I make a break for the back door to the cottage and lock myself in? I gave my head a shake. I was a competent adult woman in my own yard. It was daylight, albeit a bit dim from the storm clouds overhead. My phone was in my pocket. Wasn’t it? I felt for it in all the pockets.
Uh-oh. I’d come out here without that emergency lifeline. But the other matters stood. I swallowed and wiped sweaty palms on my pants.
Rain spattered on my head, and I shivered. I still wore the light windbreaker I’d walked home in over my white tee and skinny jeans, but the temperature had dropped. Bare feet inside my plastic garden clogs didn’t help. Neither did a touch of fear. No. I willed myself not to be afraid.
I strode toward the gate, head up, shoulders back. The driver’s-side door opened.
“Hey, Mac,” Penelope said. “Got a minute?”
I didn’t quite skid to a stop, but it felt like it as I stared at her. Not a threat at all. I rubbed my forehead.
“Um, you okay?” she asked.
The breath I let out was a noisy one. “Yes.”
“If this isn’t a good time, we can talk later.”
Tim wasn’t home yet. I could spare a few minutes. “It’s fine, until my dinner arrives. Want to come in?”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Could you please move your car to the street first? You’re in the spot where Tim parks.”
“Of course,” she said.
“Come in the front door. I’ll open it for you.”
I went through the back door to shed my wet clogs and jacket. I slipped on a house sweater and slippers in time to greet Penelope at the front door. Belle, eager for attention, followed me. I sat on the sofa, with Belle on the arm. The detective perched in an armchair.
“What’s up?” I asked.
For once, Belle didn’t mimic me. I stroked her smooth, feathered head to keep her calm.
“I understand you know Uly Cabral,” Penelope began.
“I don’t, really.”
She waited in silence.
“I mean,” I continued, “I’ve met him a couple of times, but that’s it.”
“Did you ever see him interact with Bruce Byrne?”
I thought back. “No, I don’t believe so.”
“And you didn’t overlap with Cabral at Westham High School.”
“Not at all.” I peered at her. “Penelope, he’s at least ten years younger than me.”
“Right.”
“Do you have a reason to suspect Uly in the homicide?”
“I understand Edwin Germain is working for you.”
“Yes.” If she wasn’t going to answer my questions, she was going to have to work for my answers.
“Has he mentioned anything about Byrne?”
“No.” Except he had confided in me about Yvonne’s and Bruce’s clash at the bar. But Edwin should have already spoken to Lincoln. Why was she asking me? When she showed up, I’d thought she and my favorite Statie were tag-teaming. Maybe they were in competition instead. Not sharing information. That didn’t make any sense at all. More likely, they were practicing a divide-and-conquer approach, with Penelope questioning me to see if she could learn anything I hadn’t told him.
“Has Germain mentioned Cabral?” She continued with her inquiries.
“Uly? Why would he?” I gave that a moment of thought. “Oh, because they’re about the same age. And they both work at the pub.” Interesting.
She neither confirmed nor denied.
They both might have had bad experiences with Byrne at the high school. But so did every other student who’d ever had him. The two guys could have been friends. Now I wished she’d leave so I could check the group thread. Maybe Zane had reported what he’d learned about Uly. I could ask Edwin tomorrow if he and Uly were buddies or had at least overlapped. I didn’t know exactly how old either was, but I thought they were in their mid-twenties or thereabouts.
As if she’d read my thoughts, Penelope asked, “Has your book group uncovered anything of interest?”
“Not that I know of. I always report back to Lincoln, you know, if any of us happens to learn something.” I held up a palm. “And please, no more cautions. We’re not doing anything.” I mentally crossed my fingers. We weren’t doing anything in person. Nothing dangerous. We did have our action items, and Detective Sergeant Penelope Johnson didn’t need to know about that.
The door swung open. Tim, cheeks flushed from his run, moseyed in, holding two fragrant paper bags.
“Sorry, am I interrupting?” He glanced from Penelope to me.
“Hey, handsome,” Belle said in my voice, then gave her wolf whistle and switched to Tim’s. “Am I interrupting?”
Penelope snorted.
“It’s fine.” I stood. “We were finishing up.” I was all done talking with her on a one-way street, with me offering information and her returning none. I didn’t really care if she was finished with me.
“Hello, Detective,” he said. “I’ll put these in the kitchen, Mac.” He disappeared through the door.
Penelope rose. “Thank you for your time, Mac. We’ll be in touch.”