Cover Story (9 page)

Life can be fortuitous, or it can smack you upside the head with bad timing.

CLOBBERED BY CAMEMBERT
—AVERY AAMES

L
izzie dropped Molly off at her house after extracting a promise that she'd go and lie down for a while and had to promise in return that she would try to find out what was happening at the police station. Just how she would do that, Lizzie wasn't quite sure. No way Mark would talk to her about this right now. But she could give Jacob a call. Maybe he'd have time to talk and, more importantly, some information.

She did just that when she got home, catching Jacob as he was about to leave for the station.

“All I'm asking, Jacob,” Lizzie said, “is that you let me know what's happening and when they let him go home.”

“I'll try to remember, Lizzie, but I've got a lot to be on top of right now. I've also got Lucille Miller calling me at all hours. Don't you worry, though. I'll do my best for him.” Jacob rang off and Lizzie put the phone down in frustration. She wished she could actually do something to help.

She realized the most she could do at the moment was to give some thought to Teensy's book and all the promotion involved. She grabbed a pad and pen, poured herself an iced tea from the fridge and sat at the kitchen table, determined to make a list of who to notify. But first she started by writing out a short announcement to be read on
Noella at Noon
, the local midday program on cable TV.

She was still deep in thought when her phone rang an hour later.

“It's Jacob, Lizzie. I'm at the station and I've just spoken with Bob. It seems that when the police searched his place, they found several stacks of counterfeit twenties hidden in his bedroom.”

“Hidden? How?”

“They were inside a plastic bag that was taped to the bottom of his bureau. Now, a few stray bills outside in his yard are one thing. This is a bit more damning, although they're not sure how to tie it all together as yet. I'm calling that criminal lawyer I mentioned because I think it's getting too hot for Bob. In fact, they've passed the information about the counterfeit bills over to the FBI.”

“The FBI? That's scary. It's one thing to deal with the local police but this really changes things, doesn't it?” Lizzie leaned on her right elbow and cupped her forehead in her hand. This was not good.

“I'll say. And I'd also advise you not to do any snooping this time.”

“Hmm. I hear you, Jacob. But we have to do something to help Bob. You know he's not guilty of anything criminal in nature.”

Lizzie heard some muffled conversation, as if Jacob had his hand over the telephone receiver. After a couple of minutes, he was back on line. “Sorry about that. They're letting him go and I'm going to drive him home. That's about all the news there is at the moment.”

“Thanks for calling, Jacob. Molly's been pretty anxious to hear what's going on. I'll give her a call now.”

She paused a few minutes before phoning Molly to think about what she'd been told. What did it all mean? It started with the books being hijacked and Molly being attacked. Then Orwell Rivers's body turned up. Then another body, that of Cabe Wilson, a con man, was found at Bob's place along with some counterfeit money. Some books were found along with boxes of counterfeit money at Riverwell Press followed by more counterfeit bills, this time stashed in Bob's house. There had to be a connection between all the events. But what was Bob doing mixed in there?

She'd meant it when she'd told Jacob that Bob wouldn't do anything criminal. It went against everything he'd stood for all his life. It wasn't possible. So, someone had to be framing him. How obvious was that! Surely Mark had thought of that.

Mark wouldn't like her asking, but she had to make sure he was checking that angle, too. She dialed the police station instead of Molly and asked for Mark. After a few minutes on hold, he came on the line.

“Hey, Mark. I know you're really busy so I won't take a lot of time but I wanted to assure myself that you're seriously considering the fact that Bob Miller was probably framed.”

“Hey, Lizzie. Nice to talk to you, too. And, it's none of your business. I think I asked you to stay out of this.”

“I know, Mark. But I'm just asking, that's all.”

She heard his deep sigh. “My theory is that Bob has been set up but that doesn't mean that I can lightly pass over all the evidence. He has to be treated like a proper suspect. And in fact, two FBI special agents from Birmingham will be arriving tomorrow to take over the counterfeit money investigation. Bob will have to put up with some fairly onerous questioning by them. But I wouldn't worry about him if I were you. He is an ex-cop and he does know how the process works, well enough to make it work for him.” Mark chuckled and Lizzie smiled.

Of course, Bob would be able to handle it. “Okay. Thanks for telling me that. It puts my mind at ease and I know Molly will feel better, also. Will I be seeing you at some point tonight?”

“It's not likely. I already took a short break and ate a burrito while walking Patchett. In fact, I brought him back to the station with me. Figure he can sleep under my desk as good as sleeping at home. I'm going to try to get out of here at a reasonable time. I'll need my wits about me tomorrow when those agents roll into town. And I've got the mayor breathing down my neck on this one. He doesn't like the idea that the FBI will be ‘meddling'—his words, not mine—in his town.” He sighed again. “I'll talk to you sometime tomorrow.”

“All right. Good night, Mark.”

So it was true, the FBI was getting involved. She dialed Molly's number, dreading having to pass along the information.

• • •

T
he next morning, Lizzie felt in need of an extra-long run to rid herself of too many frustrating thoughts about all the mysterious goings-on. She couldn't shake the foreboding feeling that enveloped her whenever she thought about Bob and the money. And if she felt that way, she was certain Molly would be in stress-overload. After breakfast, she planned to visit Molly and try to help allay some of her fears.

She ran along Broward past the old Carnegie Library, across the town square, over to the bike path along Sawmill Creek, through the park and turned toward home. There was a warm breeze that helped keep her comfortable. She tried to focus on her surroundings and take a time-out from thinking about what was happening, but to little avail.

On her way back along Madison, she heard a car slow down behind her. When it pulled up even, she glanced over and was surprised to see Officer Amber Craig at the wheel of a police cruiser. The car stopped and Lizzie did the same. Craig got out and walked over, taking a look up and down the street as she did so.

“Good morning, Officer. Want to go for a run?” Lizzie asked, remembering the last time that had happened just before Christmas.

Craig grimaced. “I'd rather be running right now than working, that's for sure. I just wanted to give you a heads-up. I'm not too sure how much the chief has told you or is allowed to tell you, but two FBI special agents are coming into town this morning to question Bob Miller.”

“I know that.” Lizzie's anxiety level rose as she wondered why Craig would feel it necessary to tell her. Or warn her.

“I'm concerned that once they get their hands on this case, Bob Miller might be a bit out of his depth. I know he had an admirable record as police chief, but from what I've been hearing him say, he doesn't seem to be taking the fact that he's a prime suspect as seriously as he should be.”

“You're starting to scare me. We all know Bob's not capable of committing any crime. He's the most honest guy I know. Present chief excluded, of course. He wouldn't get mixed up in murder or counterfeiting. Why would he? He doesn't need the money. What's his motive?”

Craig leaned back against the side of the cruiser and smoothed back a few strands of her long blonde hair that had escaped the tight bun, the way she often wore it when on duty. “I shouldn't be telling you this and if you let it slip to the chief it could mean my job.”

Lizzie nodded and chewed on her bottom lip. “I have several sources around town. He won't know.”

Craig took a deep breath. “Well, his sister Lucille Miller is in desperate need of money to pay back a second mortgage she took out on her house. She could lose it if she doesn't come up with the money by the end of the year. And it seems she told the bank that her brother was helping her to pay it back.”

“That could mean anything,” Lizzie protested. “Bob wouldn't get involved in something illegal even if she did need some money. I'm certain of that.”

“Maybe you are but the FBI will see it as motive. I hope he actually has some viable means of helping her. If so, he hasn't told us about it.”

Lizzie sighed. What could that mean? What if Bob had told Lucille he'd help her but didn't have a clue as to how to go about it? “Well, I know Bob Miller and I still say he's not involved. But thanks for the information, Amber.”

“Oh yes . . . and the chief said if I came across you ‘sticking your nose into any of this'—his words not mine—then I should tell him, and tell you to butt out of it.” She winked.

“Don't worry about it. I never would dream of getting involved. I know not to get mixed up in police business.” Lizzie gave Craig's arm a squeeze, mouthed a “thanks” and started out again at a slower pace. She felt hot, tired and worried. Thank goodness, only three more blocks to go.

She thought about what she'd learned the rest of the way and almost missed waving to Nathaniel Creely as he backed out of his driveway. So, no invitation to a freshly baked scone and coffee this morning. Not that she needed either.

The cats sat at their dishes when she walked into the kitchen. She'd been in such a tizzy this morning, she'd forgotten to feed them. She felt dutifully guilty as she filled one side of their dishes with a teaspoon of canned food and the other side with dried chow. Both Edam and Brie scolded her in their totally different pitched Siamese nattering until she finally put their dishes on the floor. She watched as they attacked their meals, then she ground some espresso beans and brewed a cup. She drank it while she glanced through the newspaper then took the stairs two at a time up to the bathroom to get ready for the day.

Freshly showered, dressed and having finished a breakfast of scrambled eggs with red and green peppers, she grabbed her handbag and headed to the back door only to be halted by the ringing of the phone. A hyper Molly was on the other end.

“Lizzie, I want you to get right over here to Bob's house. Right away. Okay? Please, honey?” She ended on a desperate note.

“I'm on my way, Molly.” Lizzie didn't take time to ask what was up. She had a feeling she knew what, or who, she'd find when she arrived at Bob's. She made it there in less than ten minutes.

A black Ford sedan took up the driveway while Molly's Audi was parked on the verge of the road. Lizzie pulled in behind it and hurried to the front door.

Molly must have been watching for her. She yanked open the door before Lizzie could knock. “Oh, thank God you came so quickly,” she whispered. In a louder voice she said, “Why, Lizzie Turner. You are right on time for our meeting with the former police chief.” She emphasized the last words and Lizzie had to keep from smiling. She spotted two men beside Bob in the center of the living room.

Molly grabbed Lizzie's elbow and ushered her over to them. “This is Elizabeth Turner and these here are two gentlemen from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Lizzie looked at the man on Bob's right. Medium height, brown hair just inches above a buzz cut, black-rimmed glasses framing two cold blue eyes, and muscles straining to break through the poorly tailored black blazer. He nodded at her and said, “Special Agent Greyson Ormes.” Lizzie nodded back, trying not to cringe.

The second man stepped in front of Bob and stuck out his hand. At about six-foot-five, his black wavy hair and light blue eyes made a nice contrast to his partner. He wore a beige suit with a striped blue shirt and navy tie. “Special Agent Drew Jackson, ma'am. Pleased to meet you.”

His grip was firm and warm and a bit too long. Lizzie tried for an impassive look, although it was hard not to react to the gorgeous guy in front of her. She managed a nod.

Molly jumped right in. “These men are here to question Bob. Now, isn't that ridiculous?” She turned to them both. “Just what are y'all hoping to achieve by doing this?”

“Now, Molly,” Bob said, pushing past Ormes and reaching for Molly's arm. “We all know there's been some counterfeit money found here and that's their job. They need to track down where it came from.” He turned back to them. “The only thing is, I don't know, myself.”

Lizzie cleared her throat. “You do know that we found a couple of boxes of counterfeit money at Riverwell Press the other morning?”

Ormes looked at her in interest. “That was you who found it?”

“Yes. Teensy Coldicutt, the author, and I.”

Ormes asked, “What were you doing going through a crime scene anyway?”

“I'm sure the chief has already told you or will. We were picking up boxes of Miz Coldicutt's books for her book launch. We had the permission of the chief and of the DA to do so.” She straightened her back and glared at him.

Agent Jackson stepped in. “We were told that. Can you describe for us exactly where you found the boxes?”

“They were at the very back of the metal shelving, the middle row, right behind about ten boxes of books. The packaging was the same except for the red stripes on the side of the boxes, and the two dollar signs that had been written in black marker.”

“And you opened them.” It sounded like an accusation coming out of Ormes's mouth.