Asking Fur Trouble Page 10

  Simcoe glared at me. “We have sources who put the two of you together at a bowling alley back in high school. He left while the game was still going on. Walked out on you. And you’ve been harboring resentment all these years over that, haven’t you?”

  I stared at him, dumbfounded. He really was out of my mind.

  “I was bowling with my friends,” I said. “Oliver asked if he could join us. He played and then left. We didn’t say a single word to each other. Everything your so-called sources are telling you is wrong except that we were at a bowling alley together one time.”

  The derisive look he gave me told me exactly what he thought of my explanation.

  I huffed out a breath. “I don’t have time for this.”

  Chief Ritter picked up where Detective Simcoe left off. “Maybe you’ve harbored a grudge all these years. Maybe you saw this as your perfect opportunity to get back at him.”

  “Get back at him for what?” I cried.

  “So you stole the dog first, as a way to get access to Mrs. Ford,” Simcoe said, barreling ahead with his theory. “And once inside, you took your revenge. That was the reason you came back to the island. To get back at Oliver Ford.”

  “I came back to the island because I got divorced.”

  “Another failed relationship,” the chief pointed out. “You've got a history.”

  “Oh my God,” I muttered. The connections they were trying to piece together were making my head spin.

  And I’d had enough.

  “Am I free to go?” I asked.

  Chief Ritter’s brow furrowed.

  “Am I free to go?” I asked. “Are you placing me under arrest?”

  He and Simcoe exchanged glances. I saw Simcoe offer a small shrug.

  “Because if you aren’t, I’d like to leave now. No,” I said, shaking my head. “Let me rephrase. I am leaving now.”

  “Not so fast,” Chief Ritter said. He tucked the photo of Oliver Ford under his arm and studied me. “What else am I going to find out about you?”

  “I have no idea what you mean,” I said wearily. “I’m not hiding anything.”

  “You didn’t tell us about Oliver Ford,” Simcoe said.

  “Because I’d forgotten about Oliver Ford,” I snapped. “He was literally a blip in my high school existence. There's nothing to remember. Someone is lying to you.”

  “And you didn’t tell us you were recently divorced,” Chief Ritter pointed out.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” I asked. “That’s my personal business.”

  “Not if it has any bearing on this case.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “Well it doesn’t. Because I am not a part of this case, period.”

  The looks on their faces told me otherwise.

  I drew in another breath, a far shakier one this time. I didn’t want them to know it, but I was rattled.

  “I am leaving now,” I announced, hoping my voice didn’t sound as shaky to their ears as it did to mine.

  I turned and slipped out of the office, fully expecting Simcoe to tackle me to the floor and slap handcuffs on me.

  But no one followed me.

  And the woman behind the receptionist desk said nothing as I hurried toward the exit.

  I got to my car and turned on the ignition and got out of the parking lot as fast as I could. With a few blocks between me and the police station, I pulled over to the curb so I could catch my breath and calm my racing heart.

  My experience in the Sweetwater Island police station had been one of the most surreal things I’d ever experienced. I was having a hard time comprehending just how off the rails things had gone during the brief amount of time I’d spent in Chief Ritter’s office.

  But it had also crystallized some things for me.

  Chief Ritter and Detective Simcoe were not interested in clearing my name. In fact, they were actively investigating me, trying to dig up connections that would link me to the crime.

  I dropped my head to the steering wheel. The blaring sound of the horn made me gasp in surprise.

  I sighed. I couldn’t even be a defeatist without screwing it up.

  I readjusted my head so as to not activate the horn again and closed my eyes. Despair flooded me. I didn’t know what to do next, but I knew I had to do something. If I didn’t, there was a strong possibility that the chief and detective would dig up something more useful than the fact I’d randomly bowled a game with Caroline’s son sixteen years ago.

  Not that there was anything concrete to find, I reminded myself. I was innocent. Of course I was innocent! But that didn’t matter to the local law enforcement. They wanted this case solved, and I knew they’d set their sights on me. They didn’t want to look anywhere else, regardless of what the clues might point to.

  I thought of the missing statue. It was a good, solid clue, and they hadn’t been the slightest bit interested.

  I lifted my head off the steering wheel and threw my head back against the seat. This meant only one thing.

  If they weren’t going to investigate what happened to the missing statue, then I would.

  Because I was pretty sure my freedom depended on it.

  TWENTY

  Sunday was a perfect day for a picnic.

  But it was the last place I wanted to be.

  I picked at the potato salad loaded on my paper plate.

  “Is something wrong?” my mother asked.

  I was there for her, and for her only. My mother had called me when I got home from the police station the day before and asked if I’d wanted to tag along to the church picnic. Normally I would have said no, but I was still freaked out by what had happened with Chief Ritter and Detective Simcoe. I also knew that if I stayed on the phone for too long, I ran the risk of my mom picking up on the fact that something was wrong with me.

  No, it had been far easier to just agree to meet my parents there so I could get off the phone as quickly as possible.

  Which was why I was standing in the middle of a park, holding a paper plate loaded with potluck food that I didn’t feel like eating.

  I stabbed a piece of potato. “Nope, everything is fine.”

  Everything was not fine…because I was under active investigation for a murder I didn’t commit.

  But it wasn’t as if I could just spit that out to my mother. If she thought stumbling upon a dead body was enough to trigger some type of PTSD, I shuddered to think how she’d react to the news that I was the number one suspect in that person’s death.

  Of course I wasn’t going to tell her. But I wondered how long it would take for the news to filter through the grapevine and down to my parents. It was bound to happen. Amber already knew the police suspected me, and I was pretty sure others in town weren’t far behind. It was anyone’s guess when my dad would march up to me and demand to know what had made me shift to a life of crime.

  “It’s too bad you couldn’t have joined us for church,” my mom said. She was seated next to me in a folding chair at a long white table, still dressed in her Sunday best, a pink floral dress with a matching pink shrug sweater.

  “Yeah,” I murmured, not feeling bad about that at all.

  “It was a lovely service,” she said. “The handbell choir performed. They’re looking for new members. You should consider joining.”

  “Handbell choir?”

  She nodded. She must have dyed her hair in the last couple of days because the bits of gray were now gone, replaced by a rich chestnut brown. “They do a fabulous job. And you would make so many new friends.”

  I tried not to wrinkle my nose at the suggestion. “Maybe.”

  My dad plopped down next to my mom, his plate loaded with food. “Maybe what?” he asked as he popped open his can of Diet Coke.

  “Wendy is thinking about joining the handbell choir,” my mom said.

  She was the kind of person who thought that if she said something enough, it would come true.

  My dad gave me a skeptical look. “Wendy? She ca
n’t carry a tune to save her life. Remember how flute lessons went?”

  I frowned. “I did bad with the flute because I didn’t like it.”

  “So you didn’t try?” he asked. “You purposely wasted our money on something and didn’t even give it a shot?”

  “Michael,” my mother scolded.

  He picked up his sandwich, a massive bun loaded with pulled BBQ pork, and took a bite. With his mouth half full, he said, “Greta was the musical one. Not Wendy.”

  I dropped my fork. Whatever miniscule appetite I’d had was gone at the mention of my sister’s name.

  It wasn’t a coincidence that when the letters were rearranged, my sister’s name spelled Great. She was good at everything: sports, instruments, academics. Whatever she set her mind to, she did. Things came easy to her; they always had.

  I loved her, of course, but that didn’t mean I always liked her. It always seemed like I was the constant disappointment, the one who couldn’t do anything right.

  But Greta? Greta succeeded in everything she set out to do. She did better than succeed; she excelled. Graduated college in four years, studied abroad, and was currently using her degree in eco-tourism to travel the world…and was getting paid to do it.

  And me?

  I was broke, jobless, divorced, and living in my dead grandmother’s empty house.

  So, yeah, Greta was a bit of a sore spot at the moment.

  “Oh, look, there’s Poppy Ritter,” my mother exclaimed. She waved at the woman before I had the chance to stop her.

  My dad grunted and stood up. He headed toward a row of coolers. I guess he didn’t want to talk to Poppy.

  Neither did I.

  Poppy made her way toward us. She looked like she was dressed more for the runway than a church picnic. She wore a gold pantsuit with flared legs and a triangle shape cut out of the fabric, exposing her very flat, very tan midriff. Matching gold sandals adorned with crystals were strapped to her feet.

  “Glenda, how nice to see you,” she gushed. She turned to me, and her genuine smile was quickly replaced by a fake, forced one. “Wendy.”

  I nodded coolly.

  “How is your little business doing?” Poppy asked. Her pouty lips were pursed, and the one eyebrow was raised just enough to make it perfectly clear just what she thought of my “business.”

  “Great,” I told her.

  Her brow furrowed. “You have more clients?”

  “Asher is recommending some people,” I said. It wasn’t even remotely close to the truth, but I didn’t care. I hated that she was mocking me.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Oh is he now?”

  I straightened, fixing her with a hard stare of my own. “Is that a problem?”

  My mother chuckled nervously. “So,” she said, forcing a bright smile. “How are things going at the palace?”

  Poppy smirked at me before turning her attention to my mom. “Business is phenomenal. I expect it will pick up even more in the coming weeks, now that summer is almost here.”

  “I heard you did a little redecorating,” my mom said, still smiling.

  Poppy nodded. “All new beds and bedding for the precious pooches.”

  I couldn’t resist chiming in. “New bedding?” I repeated. “Did you have to order that because Caroline wouldn’t make you the quilt you wanted?”

  Anger flashed in Poppy’s perfect smoky eyes.

  My mom’s eyes widened. “Wendy,” she admonished, almost as if I were a kid mouthing off.

  I ignored her. “Bet you were pretty upset about that, huh?” I said to Poppy.

  Her lips flattened. “That was a personal project,” she snapped. “I’m talking about bedding for my business. My very successful business. My business that no one is going to destroy.”

  She used the words ‘no one’ but I knew whom she was really referring to: me.

  I didn’t respond right away, but she clearly wasn’t interested in any more conversation with me. She mumbled some excuse to my mom, offered her an air kiss, and then disappeared into a crowd of people.

  “What in the world just got into you?” my mother asked, once Poppy was a safe distance away.

  “Wendy?” A new voice said my name.

  I swiveled around, happy to have an excuse to not engage in conversation with my mother. I wasn’t ready for her disapproving looks and her attempts at reprimanding me.

  Asher Ellsworth was standing behind me, holding an empty plate in his hands. Dressed in khakis and a black polo, with dark sunglasses covering his eyes, he was the picture of casual elegance.

  “Hi.” I offered a half-wave.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said.

  “My parents invited me,” I told him.

  My dad had returned to the table with a can of beer and my mother was once again sitting beside him. Asher flashed them both a smile. “Good afternoon.”

  I reluctantly made quick introductions, which I realized I had no idea were necessary or not.

  My mom batted her eyelashes at him and my dad offered a nod and a grunt of greeting.

  “You’re Wendy’s client, aren’t you?” my mom asked. “I mean, your dog.”

  Asher nodded. “I am indeed.”

  “That’s so great that you offered her a job,” my mom gushed. “She had no idea what she was going to do and—”

  I cut her off. “Do you go to church here?” I asked.

  Asher glanced at the United Methodist Church, a quaint whitewashed building with black shutters and bright red door. If not for the stained glass windows at the front and back of the church and the small steeple out front, it could almost pass as a house.

  “I don’t,” he said. “But I like to attend community events as much as I can. To stay connected.”

  It made sense to me. As an islander, he was part of the community, but I imagined that his business probably didn’t go over well with everyone. The tourist presence at Sweetwater was nothing like the other islands in the state, and a lot of the residents here liked it that way. Sure, there were houses along the beach that were rented out during the summer, and there were a couple of small, family-owned motels available for visitors, but Asher’s complex was the largest rental property on the island. It probably was good PR for him to be out in public as much as possible, to both build relationships and to promote good faith between him and every faction on the island.

  He glanced at me. “Are you still eating?”

  I surveyed what was left on my plate. I’d eaten the small pile of potato chips I’d taken, but there was still a good bit of potato salad, and I hadn’t even tasted the pulled pork I’d piled onto my plate.

  I stood up. “No, I’m finished.”

  He smiled. “Want to walk around with me? I can introduce you to a few people, if you’d like.”

  Anything to get away from my parents. I knew if I stayed where I was, my mom would continue to sing the praises of the handbell choir and my dad would continue to espouse all the reasons why I would fail.

  “I would like that.”

  My mother sighed, and the look I saw in her eyes convinced me she was already planning my and Asher’s wedding. Heck, I was pretty sure she would be in hot pursuit of him if he was twenty years younger and she wasn’t already married to my dad.

  “So, how has your weekend been?” Asher asked as we strolled away from where my parents were sitting. “You feel a little bit more settled after having a weekend to get the lay of the land?”

  I flashed back to the last time I’d seen him, when he’d surprised me at Clancy’s on Friday night and we’d ended up having a beer together. I was fairly certain that had been the last truly enjoyable moment of my weekend.

  “It’s been fine,” I told him. I didn’t go into the details of my conversation with Amber or my trip to the police station.

  “Just fine?” he teased. “You’re living on an island. You have a gorgeous house and a job that gives you weekends off.”

  I chuckled. “You’re right.”


  “And you got to start your weekend off with drinks with a pretty nice guy.” He winked.

  My stomach tingled. His tone was playful and light, but that didn’t stop me from wondering if there was more behind his words.

  He touched my elbow. “Here, let’s introduce you to Leah. She’s a pretty important person to know.”

  He steered me past the tables lined with food, and past an area roped off with games for the kids. Volunteers—teens, by the looks of it—were manning the game stations, all of them decked out in matching lime-green shirts.

  “Leah,” Asher called.

  We were approaching a woman whose back was turned to us. She was dressed in a simple white sundress and had long black hair that was so shiny, the sun glinted off it.

  The woman turned. “Asher.” She gave him a delighted grin and reached out and hugged him.

  I instantly wondered if this was his girlfriend. Was that why it was so important for me to meet her? So he could subtly tell me he was off-limits?

  She looked expectantly at me, a warm smile on her face. “And who is this?”

  “This is Wendy,” Asher said. “Wendy Walker. And this is Leah Sinclair.”

  I extended my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Leah owns the cupcake shop in town,” Asher told me. “Best cupcakes you’ll ever have.”

  I recognized the name. According to what Asher had told me when I first came to his office, she apparently also made the best chocolate chip cookies.

  Leah blushed. “Stop.” To me, she said, “Don’t listen to him. He’ll eat anything. He doesn’t have a discerning taste bud in his mouth.”

  Asher made a face. “Hey, now. That isn’t true. I don’t like…” He stopped to think for a minute. “I don’t like sushi.”

  She swatted his arm. “That doesn’t count. I meant anything sweet.”

  I couldn’t tell if their banter was friendly or romantic.

  “Is that the place downtown?” I asked. “With the pink and white awning and the stairs that lead up to a deck?”

  She nodded. “That’s mine.”

  “It looks super cute,” I said. It was almost hard to admit now, which I hated. It wasn’t Leah’s fault that I’d had some mild fantasies about the man we were standing with…the man that might be her boyfriend. “I’ve been meaning to stop by.”