Candy Canes & Corpses Page 4

  Maybe he drove back . . . A little instigator on my shoulder whispered to me.

  Or maybe he wasn’t ever there at all . . .

  That was my common sense talking.

  I drove up into Bobbi and Joe Lanese’s driveway, got out of the car and opened the door for Aja. Before I could get to the front door, it opened and Andy stepped out.

  “Com’ere girl,” he said, patting his hands on his thighs. She bounded over to him.

  “Hi Andy,” I said, plastering a smile on my face. Appearances, I was thinking meant everything. He tried to smile, but as I got closer to him, I saw that his face told everything.

  I wanted to hug him and tell him that everything was going to be okay, but I didn’t know that for sure. It seemed to me that for some reason, evidence be damned, Sheriff Carl Foisom was making Joe Lanese his patsy.

  How many times had I heard of innocent people going to jail? Sheriff Foisom seemed to have a law enforcement officer as an eyewitness. Bobbi hadn’t said, but I didn’t think that Joe had any witnesses to help him.

  So instead of a hug, I gave Andy another weak smile, shoved the bag of food his way, and patted Aja on the head. I’d told Bobbi not to worry, I’d take care of things on this end, but if anyone asked me, I would say I was doing a piss poor job of it.

  At least I remembered to bring him food.

  I got in the car and drove, once again, past my house. I wanted to see about getting some of Bean’s things so she could feel more at home with me. I had discarded the idea earlier of buying her new things, I only hoped that Mr. Greely was like most people in Walnut Ridge and didn’t lock his door.

  Macklin Greely lived in what looked like a ranch-style log cabin. Its brown wood exterior was weathered but was well-maintained. His windows appeared new. The perennial flowers that grew around his yard were free of weeds and were colorful. His orange door gave life to the house’s façade and always made me wonder what kind of man lived on the other side of it.

  I drove into the circular driveway and pulled right up to the front door. I figured being out in the open was my best bet. If it didn’t look as if I was sneaking around, perhaps no one wouldn’t jump to any conclusions about me.

  There wasn’t any crime tape or little evidence flags marking the house or blocking my entry. I couldn’t be sure that the sheriff had even come to check out the house. Mr. Greely hadn’t died there, so maybe he figured there was no need for it.

  I got out of the truck and let the dogs out. I walked up to that bright orange door and gave it a try, it didn’t budge. “Well, so much for that idea,” I said. I looked down and found that only Mopsy was at my side.

  “Where did Bean go?” I asked Mopsy.

  She let out a bark.

  “That’s not helping me,” I said. I glanced back toward my truck, and scanned the area I could see from the front door. Nothing.

  “Bean!” I called out. “Com’ere, girl.” Still nothing. “Where did you go?” I muttered.

  I walked around to the back of the house and at first glance didn’t see her there either. But then I spotted her standing by the sliding glass doors. They had a brown sheer curtain up to them, it was almost the same brown as the house. She watched me walk over to her, and when I got close she stepped back as if she was telling me to go in.

  “Is this door unlocked?” I asked her. I clicked the handle and slid the door open with ease. “Thank you.” I smiled down at her. “After you.” I let Bean go in first. “C’mon Mopsy. Let’s get some of Bean’s things.”

  My intentions had been to go in and just get stuff for the dog, but once inside my curiosity got the best of me. I looked around the room and something seemed odd. It wasn’t just that the house was still, and I knew that no one would be coming home to it tonight. It wasn’t a home anymore, it was just an empty house.

  And it wasn’t that I was so familiar with Mr. Greely’s modest abode that I would know when something was out of place. I’d only been inside once. Maybe twice.

  It just seemed like something was different.

  The house had an open floor plan. The kitchen where I stood looked out over the rest of the living area. The wooden dining room table was free of clutter and shined like it had been recently polished. I walked over and ran my fingers across it and then put them up to my nose. Yep, some sort of lemon polish. I wandered toward the living room. It was neat, the modern furniture had clean lines and didn’t look like something bought out of a regular furniture store. It looked more expensive.

  On the coffee table sat a bottle of whisky and two glasses. I found that odd.

  I had never known Mr. Greely to drink, but then again, I hadn’t spent much time in his company. But I also knew that Mr. Greely didn’t socialize much with anyone. No one had to spend time around him to know that he didn’t do that.

  Mr. Greely was a loner. I’d rarely seen him even in a conversation with another human being. His dog, Bean, seemed to be all he needed.

  It wasn’t that I hadn’t ever seen him engage in conversation, and I had to give it to him, he was observant, and didn’t mind you knowing what he’d seen you do. He just didn’t like people well enough to sit and suffer through a visit and a drink with them.

  I glanced at the walls and saw Edward Hopper kinds of paintings hung and wondered had he been the one to pick them out.

  It struck me at that moment that perhaps I’d never thought of him as a person, just as the man who lived next door. Never considering his likes and dislikes, what he thought or even the man that he was.

  I turned to look at another wall and noticed a gun rack. It was made for a single rifle. But there was no rifle in it. I scanned the tabletops and corners, obvious places one might place a gun. Nothing.

  Had there ever been one there? I didn’t know. But if there had been, where was it now? Mr. Greely had been killed with a gun. Was it his own shotgun that had done the deed? And if so, where was it now?

  Maybe in the woods behind the paper mill?

  I wonder if I’d followed Bean when she looked for her ball, would I have seen it . . .

  In looking around the room, my eyes settled in on the Christmas tree that sat in the corner.

  It was a smaller tree, but healthy looking. It was one that I would have liked to have grown on my land. I walked over to it and ran my fingers over the branches.

  A Douglas-fir.

  Sparsely decorated, it looked like it had been done with care—ornaments spaced out evenly, candy canes dangling, an angel watching over from atop. It even had presents underneath.

  I wondered who they were for.

  I turned and looked back toward the kitchen and noticed a carboard box in a corner. I walked over and looked down in it. Then I looked over at Bean. She and Mopsy were sitting in the middle of the floor watching me.

  “Do you know about this?” I asked Bean and pointed to the box. “Was this yours?”

  It was a whelping box. It was filled with shredded and torn paper. I stared down at it and tried to figure out what it meant. To me, it meant that a dog had just given birth and there were puppies somewhere around. But that couldn’t be . . .

  I saw a piece of the torn paper inside the box that had a picture on it that seemed to stare back at me. I stooped to take a better look. “Is that you?” I said and picked it up. The paper appeared to be from some sort of periodical, and the man in the picture was Macklin Greely.

  “Well, I’ll be,” I said. I turned to look at Bean. “The two of you are full of surprises, aren’t you?”

  I stood up and looked at the paper, all set to read the article underneath the image when there was a knock on the door.

  “Oh shoot!” I said. The dogs stood up and looked at me. Seemingly waiting for my command. We were trespassing, the only thing I could think of to do was duck out the back door and hope no one would see us.

  Then I remembered that I’d parked right in front of the house. “Oh, that was smart, Lynley,” I muttered to myself. It had seemed like a good
idea at the time, but after all my snooping around in a dead man’s house, I suddenly felt guilty.

  I stuffed the picture in my jacket pocket.

  I went to the door and opened it, just like I belonged there.

  “Hello,” the person on the other side said.

  “Hi,” I said, my voice chipper, a smile on my face.

  “I’m looking for Macklin Greely,” he said. He looked out to the driveway then back up at the house number. “Is he here?”

  “Uhm . . . No,” I said. “Not at the moment.”

  “Oh, okay,” he said and returned my smile. “I’m Richard Young. I’m Macklin’s son.”

  Chapter Eight

  Richard Young looked in his early forties. He was smartly dressed—expensive wool overcoat, leather gloves, and underneath a three-button navy blue suit, power-red tie and spit shined wingtip shoes. If he’d been a sailor on my ship, he would have passed inspection on the first try.

  And he was handsome.

  None of those things I would have expected from an offspring of Old Man Greely.

  “Why don’t you come in,” I said. Evidently, he hadn’t heard about his father and I didn’t think it was appropriate to break the news while he was standing at the front door.

  “Thank you,” he said as he stepped inside. I gestured with my hand for him to go into the living room.

  Bean didn’t move. His eyes, just like Mopsy’s followed him as he stepped inside, but there wasn’t any recognition.

  “Are those your dogs?” he asked.

  I gave him a curt nod. “They are.”

  I didn’t want to get too friendly with him and he’d start asking me questions. And I also thought it would be easier telling him about his father if he was sitting down. I pointed to the couch telling him to sit. He followed orders and perched himself on the edge of it.

  “So,” I started, “did your father know you were coming?”

  “Yes,” he said hesitantly. “He sort of asked me to come. Why? Isn’t it a good time?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “I mean yes.” I sucked my tongue. “It’s fine . . . With me.”

  I slumped my shoulders. I didn’t know how to tell him, so I decided just to do it.

  “Your father passed away this morning.”

  “Oh,” he said. He looked around the room as if he was unsure what to do next. “I’m sorry.”

  “No,” I said. “I’m the one who’s sorry.” I reached my hands out toward him. “You have my condolences.”

  He turned his head to the side and looked at me out the corner of his eye. “And who are you?”

  “Sorry again,” I said. I stuck out my hand to shake his. “I’m Lynley Richardson. I live next door.” I pointed in the direction of my house.

  “You don’t live here?”

  “No.”

  “You were friends with my father?”

  “Not really,” I said.

  “Oh,” he said again. He looked down at his feet. He lifted the toe of his shoes and tapped them a few times on the floor. Then he looked back up at me. “Is there going to be a memorial or something? I guess I probably should attend. I mean I am here now.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that before now,” I said. “But wouldn’t that be something you’d plan?”

  He changed the subject.

  “How did he die?” he asked.

  “He was shot.”

  “Accidently?”

  “No.” I pursed my lips and shook my head.

  “On purpose?”

  “Yes.”

  “As in murdered?”

  “As in murdered.”

  Before I could tell him anything else about it, not that I knew more, another knock came on the door.

  “Oh my,” I said. “For a dead man, Mr. Greely sure does get a lot of company.”

  Being the gracious—trespassing—host that I was, I smiled politely at Richard Young, excused myself and went and answered the door. Again. This time it was the sheriff.

  Uh-oh . . .

  “Ms. Richardson,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

  “Hi sheriff,” I said.

  “What are you doing here?” He stepped inside the door, although I hadn’t invited him in, and took off his hat.

  “I came to pick up some of Bean’s things.”

  “Who is Bean,” he said narrowing his eyes. “And who is that?” He pointed to Richard Young.

  “Bean,” I said and cocked my head to the side, “Is . . . Was Mr. Greely’s dog. And that . . .” I let my eyes wander toward my other male visitor, “Is Mr. Greely’s son.”

  “Son?” The sheriff walked over to him. “I wasn’t aware that he had a son.”

  “Neither was I,” I said. “But apparently he does.”

  “This is a crime scene,” the sheriff said. “No one should be here.”

  “It’s not a crime scene,” I said.

  “Is this where it happened?” Richard Young said at the same time and popped up off the couch.

  “No,” I said. “It isn’t.”

  “Just the same,” Sheriff Foisom said. “No one should be here until I clear it.”

  “I noticed an empty gun rack,” I pointed to it, “and two glasses on the coffee table with that bottle of whiskey,” I said then pointed to it. “I think you might want to look at that.”

  “Don’t need your help,” Sheriff Foisom said. “Just need you to vacate the premises.”

  I held up my hands. “I’m leaving,” I said. “Come on, girls.” I patted my legs to call my dogs. Then I remembered why I came. “Do you mind if I get Bean’s bed and leash? And maybe see what kind of dog food is in there?” I nodded toward the kitchen.

  The sheriff let out a huff. “Be quick about it, Lynley,” he said. “I need to take a look around.”

  “I’ll be leaving, too,” Richard Young said, looking lost as he spoke.

  “If you don’t mind . . . It’s Mr. Young, right?”

  “Yes,” he answered. “I’m Richard Young.”

  “Yeah,” the sheriff said, “if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions about your father.”

  “Sure,” Richard said. “Don’t know how much help I’ll be, but I can try.”

  I didn’t know what that meant, but according to the sheriff it wasn’t any of my business. I gathered up the things I needed, took my dogs, and left out of the front door.

  All kinds of things were swirling around in my head as I drove the few yards home.

  For one, Richard Young didn’t seem to know much about his father. Even Bean didn’t seem to know who he was. Granted, I hadn’t spoken much to Mr. Greely, he never gave me the impression that he had a son, or any family for that matter.

  Not surprisingly, I wasn’t too impressed with the way the sheriff was handling the investigation. It seemed to me, after arresting Joe, he’d concluded it. And I doubted he had a single shred of evidence against him. At least none that I could tell.

  When I’d seen the deputy at the post office earlier, I had no idea that he’d been involved in any kind of way in pointing the finger at Joe Lanese. Not that I would have done anything.

  At the time.

  But my curiosity was getting the best of me. There was lots of talk going around town. I didn’t know how much of it was true, or if it was related to what happened. Seemed like some people had already made up their minds.

  I wanted to help Bobbie and Joe Lanese. They were good neighbors and good friends. But I didn’t know what to do.

  There wasn’t much, I realized, that I could do.

  One way I knew I could help was to be a good character witness for Joe. That meant talking to Mr. Blue Eyes again.

  That made me smile.

  Not because he was good looking, I told myself, but because I could not only vouch for Joe, I could tell him all the things I knew. I looked forward to seeing him so I could do that.

  Okay, yes, and so I could look into those striking blue eyes of his again.

  Chap
ter Nine

  At nine o’clock on the dot I was sitting in my Bronco across the street from Town Hall.

  Bobbi had called me around midnight to let me know she’d made it back from Albany and that Clark Bingham had an appointment with the judge first thing in the morning. She said she was going to meet him there.

  I decided to meet him there, too.

  I sat in my truck, heat on and Christmas music playing. My girls, Mopsy and Bean, on the back seat. I hoped we didn’t look too suspicious or even stupid just sitting there, but how could I not.

  Town folk passed by and waved. Smiling at me and, I’m sure, wondering what I was doing. I was amazed at how many were out walking around at that time of the morning.

  Didn’t anyone go to work?

  I guess I could’ve waited at home. Watched out of the window until I saw Bobby pass by and follow behind her. But I thought that might be too obvious. She had commented on my lack of control over my faculties when I’d laid eyes on Attorney Bingham.

  I couldn’t argue about that. It was just something about those eyes.

  I took a sip of the coffee I’d filled my travel mug with, and settled in. I was on a stakeout and didn’t know how long I’d have to wait. I wanted to be prepared. I brought snacks for the dogs, too.

  I kept my eyes trained on Town Hall, and my surveillance paid off. I did see someone I wanted to talk to, it wasn’t Clark Bingham, though.

  “Pete!” I rolled down the window and called out. “Hi, Deputy Pete!”

  I left the car running, the heat on and the window cracked for the dogs and got out of the car. I trotted over to where he had stopped and waited for me when I called out to him.

  “Hi,” I said again. “How are you?”

  “I’m good,” he said. “Is that what you wanted?”

  “No,” I said and smiled. “I wanted to ask you about yesterday.”

  “What about yesterday?” His brow furrowed, he pulled the collar on his coat up.

  “I was wondering about you hearing the argument between Mr. Greely and Joe.”