Pouncing on Murder Page 5

  “What’s that about the sheriff’s office?” I asked.

  Adam looked at me. “Do you really want to hear this?”

  Not a chance. “Yes, please.”

  His gaze drifted past me. “That day, out in the woods. The sap run was over, so I’d stopped by to help Henry clean up the sugar shack. He went out to stack some wood and when he didn’t come back, I went out to find him.”

  I knew where Henry had lived, on a forty-acre parcel covered with maple trees. It was a beautiful piece of rolling land, not on the water but next door to it and bordering numerous cottages that fronted Rock Lake, most of which would be empty at this time of year.

  Adam put his palm flat on his chest. “Henry was under a tree,” he said, the words tumbling out. “I tried lifting it, tried pulling him out, digging him out, but then my heart kind of exploded. Next thing I know, I’m falling to the ground. I’m flat on my back. Could hardly breathe and the inside of my chest is on fire. I know my cell phone’s in my pocket, and when I reach around for it, my head turns, and I swear, I swear . . .”

  I was on the edge of my seat. “What?”

  Adam’s eyes focused on my face. “I swear I saw someone. Running away.”

  Chapter 4

  As soon as the bookmobile had been stowed away for the night and Eddie returned to the boardinghouse, I marched straight to the sheriff’s office and, standing at the tall front counter that almost reached the underside of my chin, gave my name, and asked if I could see Detective Inwood.

  “Hang on,” said a deputy. With no speed whatsoever, he reached for the phone, pushed a few buttons, and turned away to talk. He murmured a few words, glanced back at me—I smiled brightly—flipped back around, laughed, then hung up the phone. “Hal says to send you back to the interview room.”

  “Thank you,” I said politely, trying not to wonder what had caused the laughter.

  The deputy buzzed open the locked door that led to the interior offices. “It’s down the hall, third office on the right.”

  “Thanks,” I said, though I didn’t need the directions. If this had been baseball, someone would have been keeping track of the number of times any given honest law-abiding private citizen had sat in the small windowless room. Last fall I’d lost count after using up all my fingers and had decided it was a silly number to try to remember anyway.

  I sat primly in the chair that I’d long ago come to think of as mine, and kept my attention away from the stains on the ceiling tiles, especially the ones near the door. If I stared at them too long, they’d turn into fire-breathing dragons and fly into my dreams. As it was, I had enough problems with animals in dreams, thanks to Eddie’s tendency to sleep on my head when the outside temperature dropped below sixty degrees. Why the outside temperature should cause a change in his inside behavior, I didn’t know. All I knew was that it was true.

  “Ms. Hamilton.” The tall, rangy, and gray-haired Detective Inwood entered the room and stood next to the scratched laminate table. “Do I need to sit down for this?”

  He showed a number of signs of a man with too much to do and not enough time to do it in. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Tapped his leg with his fingers. Glanced out to the hallway. If I tried to talk while he was standing, I’d never get his full attention.

  I slid down and reached out with my toes to push out the chair opposite from me. “How nice to see you, Detective Inwood. Did you have a nice winter? And how were your holidays?”

  “Ms. Hamilton,” he said, his patient tone slipping, “please don’t tell me you’re here for a social call. Devereaux retired last month and Wolverson isn’t a detective yet, so I’m dealing with a double caseload. I have half a dozen cases going and—”

  “It’s about Henry Gill.”

  Inwood’s tense impatience fell into lines of fatigue. He went to the chair and sat heavily. “Henry. I still can’t believe the old bugger’s gone.”

  Too late, I realized what I should have considered earlier, that the detective and Henry were near contemporaries, that Tonedagana County didn’t have all that many people in it, and that the odds were good that any two men from the same generation knew each other. Hundred percent odds, really, if Inwood’s reaction was a guide. It had been poor judgment not to think about the possibility, and I was sorry I’d been flip in the way I’d changed the subject.

  After a moment, I said, “I was talking to Adam Deering earlier today.”

  The detective nodded. “The guy who found Henry.”

  “He was saying that he saw someone running away from Henry, after that tree fell.”

  “Thought that he saw a male figure,” the detective corrected.

  I bristled at the dissing of my new friend’s reputation. “Well, he was having a heart attack.”

  “Exactly,” Detective Inwood said. “Eyewitnesses are unreliable in the best of cases, and this certainly wasn’t best.”

  “But—”

  Inwood held up his hand against my protest. “Point number one. Mr. Deering was having a heart attack. Point number two. He was in an area with which he was not familiar. Point number three. The weather was windy with gusts up to thirty miles an hour, two inches of rain had fallen inside the previous twelve-hour period, and the heavy cloud cover made the light quality very poor. None of these created optimal conditions for observation.”

  Grudgingly I gave him credit for not ending the point-number-two detail with a preposition. “Okay, but—”

  The hand went back up. “And point number four, the most pertinent point. Mr. Deering’s statement was inconsistent.”

  My spine lost a little of its starch. “But that has to happen all the time. It’s easy to get a couple of details mixed up, especially in . . . in a situation like that.”

  Detective Inwood didn’t appear to care. “Initially Mr. Deering claimed there was thunder and lightning that day. Later, he said there’d been none. Then Mr. Deering said he went out to check on Henry because he thought he’d heard a strange noise. Later, he said he went outside to get some fresh air. At one point Mr. Deering said he’d seen someone else in the woods, someone wearing a brown jacket. Later, he said the jacket was dark green. Even later, he said it was navy blue. Later yet, he said it was plaid.”

  The intellectual part of my brain knew that what the detective was saying made sense, that Adam’s emotional and physical state had been clouding everything to the point where his statement couldn’t be trusted, but the other part of my brain, the part that cared deeply about puppies and kittens, wasn’t convinced at all.

  “But none of that means he was wrong,” I said, trying to be calm and rational. “Even if he’d said the man’s coat was bright purple with fluorescent green polka dots, that doesn’t mean a man wasn’t there.”

  Inwood smiled. “I’m surprised at you, Ms. Hamilton. Of all people, I would have thought you’d be open to gender possibilities.”

  I felt my cheeks warm. “Adam said he’d seen a guy. I was just going with his impressions.”

  “The same impressions that seemed to change every time we talked to him?” The detective sighed and looked at the ceiling. I wondered if the dragon looked like something else from that side of the table. Maybe next time I’d break out of my rut and sit in his chair.

  A man about my age—a very good-looking man—hurried into the room. “Sorry I’m late. I got a phone call and . . . oh.” Deputy Ash Wolverson looked at me. “Hi, Minnie. Is something wrong?”

  “Ms. Hamilton stopped by to tell us that we should pay more attention to our eyewitnesses.” Detective Inwood stood. “Please show her out.” He gave me a marginally polite nod and left the room.

  Ash settled into the vacated chair. “Is that why you’re here? Did you witness a crime?”

  Once again, I wondered how such a stunningly handsome man could be so unaware of how his good looks could affect the women around him. I, of course, was immune since I was dating Tucker, but surely Ash had grown up with girls throwing themselves at him. In my
experience, that tended to make men annoyingly sure of themselves, but Ash came across as humble and almost shy.

  I smiled at him. “No, I stopped by to drop some books off for Adam Deering and heard what he’s saying about Henry.”

  Ash folded his hands on the table and stared at them. “Mr. Deering stated, in various ways, that he’d seen a figure running away from Mr. Gill and himself.”

  “And you don’t believe him,” I said. “At least that’s what Detective Inwood implied.”

  “Inwood is—” Ash stopped abruptly. Looked at his hands some more.

  “Is what?” I asked. “Encouraging and sympathetic? Willing to take the time to teach you all you’ll need as a detective? Supportive?”

  Ash laughed. “Have you had Hal as a boss? Because it sounds like you know him pretty well.”

  No, but I did have a boss named Stephen. “I’m sure he loves his wife and children dearly and wouldn’t dream of kicking a dog.”

  “Grandchildren, too,” Ash said. “Have you seen the pictures? Cute kids.”

  The idea of Detective Inwood dandling babies on his knees was a little much even for my overactive imagination.

  “But the problem,” Ash went on, lowering his voice and leaning forward, “is he’s city.”

  “He’s . . . city?”

  “Yeah. Hal grew up downstate in a big town, spent twenty-five years on a big-town police force, and moved up here to work until he got old enough to retire for good. So he’s from the city and thinks city.”

  “I’m from Dearborn,” I said a little stiffly.

  “Really?” He caught himself and started again. “And that’s just what I mean. You’re from the city, but you think small town. Hal Inwood, he’s big city inside and out.”

  I wasn’t understanding this at all. “What does this have to do with Henry and Adam?”

  “Because once Hal gets out of town, he doesn’t always see the possibilities.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the possibility that someone could have set up that tree to fall.”

  “Set it up?”

  “Sure.” Ash nodded. “Wouldn’t be that hard. Find a tree rotted in the middle, tie a come-along to it, and start winching it. Bring it almost to the falling point, then back off and unchain it. Rig up a block and tackle to some upper branches, wait for your guy to get into the right spot, give a good yank, and the tree comes down.”

  I stared at him. “But you’re talking about . . . about something worse than leaving two injured men behind. You’re saying it was—” I didn’t want to think about it, let alone say it out loud.

  “I’m not saying anything,” Ash said, shaking his head. “I’m just saying there are possibilities that need to be looked into.”

  “Possibilities of murder,” I said.

  “And another thing.” Ash looked into my face, and for the first time I noticed that his eyes were almost gray. A little blue, but if I had to choose a color, it would have been gray.

  “Another thing?” I asked faintly.

  “If it was a setup, I’m not sure about the target.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The light was bad,” Ash said. “It was rainy and windy and cold and all-around crappy. If someone knew Deering was helping clean out the sugar shack, that someone could have expected Deering to go out to the woodpile, not Henry.”

  My mouth moved, but nothing came out. Finally I stopped trying and stared at Ash mutely.

  He nodded. “If it was murder, Adam Deering could have been the intended victim.”

  “Wolverson!”

  I jumped backward, Ash jumped to his feet. We’d leaned so close, talking so quietly, that our heads had been almost touching.

  “Yes, ma’am!” Ash stood ramrod straight.

  Sheriff Kit Richardson stood in the doorway, looking from him to me and back again. “Please tell me this little scene has to do with an investigation.”

  I stood and started talking, but Ash spoke over the top of me. Which was easy enough, since he was almost a foot taller to begin with.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he repeated. “Ms. Hamilton here had some information regarding the death of Henry Gill.”

  “Hamilton?” The sheriff faced me and I felt myself squaring my shoulders and standing as tall as I ever had in my entire life. “Minnie Hamilton?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ash and I said simultaneously.

  If I hadn’t been at eye level with her teeth, I might have missed the short, tiny quirk that one side of her mouth made. “Wolverson, you’re still working the accident-by-design angle?”

  He nodded, and a part of me loosened that I hadn’t even known was tight. Ash wasn’t keeping anything from Detective Inwood; he was being up-front about his theory and had taken it all the way to the sheriff. The detective must not agree with Ash’s theory, and that was why Ash had been whispering to me.

  “All right, then,” Sheriff Richardson said. “Carry on, you two.” She nodded at us and as she turned away, she looked at me. “I’d date him myself if I wasn’t married,” she said softly, and this time her smile wasn’t hidden at all.

  • • •

  I left the sheriff’s office directly after that little incident, and spent the rest of the evening on the couch rereading The Stand. After all, there was nothing like eight hundred and twenty-three pages of a postapocalyptic Stephen King horror/fantasy novel to make you forget that not only did your county sheriff know your name, for unknown and probably scary reasons, but she might also be trying her hand at a little matchmaking.

  “As if I didn’t get enough of that from Aunt Frances,” I told Eddie as I pulled a lap blanket to my chin. My aunt was teaching a night class, so Eddie and I had the huge house to ourselves.

  Eddie glared at me and jumped down.

  “Okay,” I said, “I take that back. Aunt Frances hasn’t ever tried to set me up.” At least not to my knowledge. But given her summer tendencies, I lived with the fear that she was biding her time as far as her niece was concerned.

  Eddie must have forgiven my transgressions during the night, because the next morning I woke up on my stomach with him sprawled across my lower back. A few stretches and a long, hot shower later, I was in the car with a piece of toast, heading east to the other side of the state for an interlibrary event in Alpena.

  My regional counterparts and I had a nice time talking about cooperative ventures, new programming, and electronic difficulties. We ended the morning with a happy discussion about books, and, despite the invitation to lunch, I made my good-byes and pointed my car back west. There were things that needed doing at the library—book fair–related things—and they couldn’t wait.

  Halfway back, though, the piece of toast I’d eaten for breakfast and the mini blueberry muffin I’d had in the library wore off completely. I needed food before I got back to the library and I needed it before I turned cranky from hunger.

  I didn’t have time for a full restaurant meal, which was just as well because I was driving through a lightly populated part of the state, an area where towns were rare and commercial establishments of any type were more likely to be boarded up than occupied.

  “There’s got to be something,” I muttered, tapping the steering wheel. I’d seen a gas station somewhere along this stretch of two-lane highway on the way over, hadn’t I? I pictured it in my head, a concrete block structure painted a perky light yellow. Gravel parking lot. April-empty flower planters. Two gas pumps, no canopy.

  I was starting to think my hunger-saturated mind had mixed it up with a stretch of highway I’d seen in the Upper Peninsula a while back, when the curving road straightened out and there it was. BUB’S GAS AND MORE, read the sign, its paint peeling away from the wood.

  There were a couple of cars in the rutted parking lot, so at least the place was open for business. And all I wanted was something to eat. Gas station sandwiches were often suspect, and you had to especially wonder about a sandwich made by a guy named Bub, but Bub
was bound to have protein bars. Potato chips, even. Or popcorn. A bag of cheese-flavored popcorn would tide me over nicely.

  I was bumping my car across the parking lot, already dreaming of yellowed fingers, when two people, a man and a woman, walked out the front door.

  My mouth fell open.

  He was very tall and solid. Her head barely reached the top of his shoulder. He wore a baseball cap, a zip sweatshirt, and well-aged jeans. She wore an attractively styled jacket over tailored dress pants and low-heeled pumps. He opened the driver’s door of a sleek sedan, waited while she got in, then shut the door and went around to the passenger’s side.

  And while I was pretty sure I’d never seen her before in my life, I knew exactly who he was.

  • • •

  “It was Mitchell Koyne,” I said.

  Josh shook his head. “Not a chance.”

  “Over there?” Holly asked. “That’s almost a hundred miles away. I’ve never heard of him setting foot outside Tonedagana County.”

  Though I knew Mitchell occasionally went down to Traverse City, I also knew what Holly meant. Mitchell was a library regular and one of those guys who, if he’d wanted to, was probably smart enough to do pretty much anything. The only thing was, what he seemed to want to do most was nothing. He lived in an apartment his sister had created for him in her house and made a little money working various construction jobs in the summer and running ski lifts in the winter. Though he’d spent a few months handing out business cards that proclaimed him an investigator, I wasn’t sure the business had ever, or would ever, generate actual income.

  “And he was with a girl?” Josh laughed. “What self-respecting female would go out with Mitchell Koyne?”

  “He’s not that bad.” I didn’t know whether it was his height, his cluelessness about life in general, or his untapped intelligence, but there was something about Mitchell that was oddly charming.