Thirty-One

Old wounds. That’s what this was all about. And Matt was about to pour salt on them.

Blueprint tucked in his back pocket, he grinned, nice and easy, as the door opened.

It was after nine o’clock and flour coated Jeffrey’s jeans and hands. The strain around the man’s eyes took Matt aback. Looked like it had been days, maybe even weeks, since he had gotten a full night’s sleep. Nevertheless, his smile flashed quick and true. “Another unannounced visit?” He swung the door open wider, and Matt caught a blast of the sweet scent of baker’s yeast. “Maybe I should put you back to work. You seem to have enough free time on your hands.”

“Says the man with flour on his.”

“Better than sawdust.”

“I’ll say. Seems like my timing couldn’t have been better.” Kicking off his shoes by the door, Matt strolled through in his socks, following the scent of freshly baked bread into the steam-filled kitchen. Curiosity had him heading straight for the oven. Turning on the light, he glanced through the clouded glass.

On the middle rack sat a round loaf, four slits in crust that was already golden and hard. Not much longer and it would have to come out. The baking sheet in the bottom he knew would be filled with a cup of water, to get that perfect glossy finish.

Turning around, Matt took in the large mixing bowl on the counter, lined with a flour-dusted tea towel and more dough, ready to be shaped. His brows rose. “You just felt like spending the evening making sourdough bread?”

“Pot, kettle,” Jeffrey said. “It’s Friday night. What are you doing here?”

“Hey, I was at a gallery opening earlier.” And then the library.

“I can guess why the sudden interest in art,” Jeffrey said dryly.

He grinned at the dig. “I was supporting a local event, that’s all.”

Jeffrey turned the contents of the bowl out onto the work surface. With the heel of his hand, he knocked the air out of the dough. Kneading bread takes energy, power, but he was putting his full body weight behind it. Applying force, although it wouldn’t take much to reactivate the yeast.

Matt leaned back against the counter, biding his time. “How’s the new project coming?” Thomas’s house. Which was also a nice lead-in as to why he’d come.

Jeffrey slammed his fist into the dough. “Fine.”

“Sounds like it,” he said mildly.

Jeffrey shot a frown his way. “Don’t get smart with me.”

Because he recognized real worry when he heard it, he changed his tone. “There always seems to be a snag at the start. What’s the problem with this one?”

“The backhoe.” The timer shrilled. Jeffrey jerked his head toward the oven. “See if that’s done, would you?

“You have a backhoe?” Through a blast of heat and steam, he saw the loaf was nice and dark, almost burnt in places. The scent of the bread had his mouth watering.

“That’s the snag.”

He winced. Jeffrey would need a backhoe to dig trenches for a holding tank, haul material on site and any other landscaping. “That’s some snag all right.” He moved the loaf to the wire rack. “They’re not cheap.”

“It’s an investment.” Jeffrey put the dough onto the hot baking sheet, slid it into the oven. Reset the timer. “So, are you going to ask me about that paper hanging out of your back pocket, or are you going to carry it around with you all night?”

Caught on a grin, he spread the blueprint on the countertop, setting flour drifting.

“Building plans?” Jeffrey pressed the curled edge down flat, read the name. “What the hell is this?”

“I was hoping you could tell me that.” He watched his face, waiting for that flicker of realization.

“You raided the town archives.” Jeffrey frowned. “Why?”

“To find out more about Clarkston Engineering.” Hard to believe he even had to ask.

“Always been too damn curious,” Jeffrey muttered. His gaze flicked to the date. “These are from a while ago.”

“After you stopped working with Andrew.”

He nodded.

“Guess who the architect was.”

Jeffrey shot him a glance, half-frustrated, half-resigned. Planting his hands on the counter, he leaned over the print. Then his head snapped up. “You can’t be serious.”

And there it was. “Interesting, isn’t it?”

“No.”

Not the answer he’d been expecting. “What do you mean? This proves Thomas and Andrew knew each other.”

“So what? Did they make a point to hide that fact?”

Might as well have. “They didn’t go out of their way to mention it.”

“Why should they?” Jeffrey straightened. “This was years ago. And it doesn’t mean much.”

The thrill that had buoyed him all the way here — that his luck might be turning, that he finally might figure things out — sank inside him. Nevertheless, he said, “They acted like they’d never met.”

“You know what they say when you assume. You make an —”

“Ass of ‘u’ and ‘me’. Yeah, I get it. But look at this.” He couldn’t let it go, not yet. He placed his finger on the revision list. On the approved fill material. “Why the change?”

Jeffrey jerked his shoulders. “There’s a reason revision lists are used. There are always alterations before a project gets underway.”

“To meet deadlines, keep the bid low.” But this was different.

“Turn a five-story build into a three-story and you cut costs, get the job done faster. Nothing odd about that. Just means you can win more bids.”

“But why switch to this fill material?”

“No idea.” Jeffrey sounded irritated now.

Still, he pushed. It was hard to believe that a man who had spent most of his life working on these sorts of projects, assessing foundations, didn’t know the material. “You don’t recognize it?” The heat from the oven had a trickle of sweat sliding down his spine.

“Does it matter?”

Balking him every step of the way. “Yeah, I think it does.”

Jeffrey snarled a sigh. “Stubborn, as always. The change wouldn’t have been smart, but it makes sense. The original fill material was a good choice. But the substitute material would have been cheaper and easier to get a hold of.”

“And winter was setting in.” The faster the build, the better.

Jeffrey nodded. “But the substitute material doesn’t drain as well. It can retain water, which —”

“Expands when it freezes.”

Flash of approval that he’d made the connection. “And cause cracking in the foundation walls,” Jeffrey said. “They’d need to do remedial work later on down the road. Someone thought they were being clever, but this would come back to bite them in the ass.”

That was one way to look at it, if you gave them the benefit of the doubt. “What if they hoped no one would notice? Using cheaper materials to lower building costs, that’s more than cutting a corner. That’s fraud.”

“And you’d better be damn cautious about tossing that word around,” Jeffrey warned. “Fraud is a repeated, deliberate action. To me, this looks like a judgement error. A mistake that someone paid for. You don’t hang a man for that.”

But you sure could fit the noose. “Yeah? What about holding paramount the safety, health, and welfare of the public?”

Jeffrey’s hand fisted, the floured knuckles calloused and hard. “Are you quoting the code of ethics at me?”

The sheer force of his anger had Matt falling back a step, holding up his hands in defense. “Just thinking out loud.”

“Seems you’ve been doing a lot of thinking since that artist showed up.”

Shock wiped his face blank. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That girl’s really turned your head, hasn’t she?”

Anger pulsed through him. “This has nothing to do with Charley.”

“She asks for an interview about your father, you jump. She needs help at the gallery, you come running. Next, she’ll have you rolling over and playing dead.” Jeffrey’s lip curled on a sneer. “Good dog.”

Outrage and fury surged through him, had his fist curling in response. But he fought to keep his temper in check. “You’re crossing the line.”

“Am I? You’re talking about accusing a man of murder.”

“And this might give him motive.”

“‘Might’? Matt, you don’t sic the cops on a man without proof. And this —” He slapped his hand on the blueprint. “— this isn’t it.”

“Not to mention the fact that you’d like him to pay his bill.” He wondered how the hell things had gotten so out of hand, and how he was going to fix it.

“Yeah, I do. It’s also clear as day to anyone who has eyes that Kayla killed her husband.”

“Some people would disagree with that.”

Jeffrey’s brows rose. “I can only guess who. And she’s got you chasing your own tail.”

“Watch it,” he warned through gritted teeth. “It’s Andrew Clarkston I’m after and you know exactly why. And I’m going to keep asking questions. Because if Andrew really killed my mother to cover up a ‘mistake’ and got away with it, chances are good he did it again.”

Jeffrey rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, his eyes suddenly tired. “Put that thing away.”

End of discussion. So much for asking him about the blueprint for the gallery.

Matt rolled up the paper, felt the grit of flour beneath his fingers. “Seems like we keep talking past each other these days.” Something had changed, though what and when, he had no idea. Maybe if he did, he’d know how to put it right.

“I don’t like it,” Jeffrey said.

“Neither do I.”

On a sigh, Jeffrey went to the fridge, took out butter, eggs, maple syrup. “Make yourself useful and cut some of that bread.”

Matt watched him line up vanilla extract, cinnamon, and sugar. “French Toast?”

“You want to argue about that, too?”

The familiar tone eased the stone-heavy weight in his chest. “Nope.”

“Good.”

“But it’s better with lemon zest,” he added on a grin.

A second away from cracking the first egg, Jeffrey paused, shot him a look beneath his brows. “You want to make it?”

“Nah. It looks like you’ve got this.”

“Then shut up.” A smile flickered at his mouth. “Or I’ll get out the duct tape.”

“Fighting words, Jeffrey.” And because there’d been a lot of those lately, he let it go. For now.