Murder in the Milk Case (14 page)

He looked down his nose at me, with an expression amazingly like my mother-in-law’s. The one that said, Did I give you permission to speak, redneck peon? “Mrs. Cunningham, your husband hired me to give you legal advice. At this point in time, I advise you to say nothing else.”

“But it’s no big deal,” I said. “All I—”

“Why is she here?” The lawyer stepped between me and the officers, effectively cutting me off.

Detective Scott stood. “Peter Ramsey was found murdered early this morning. It appears that Mrs. Cunningham was one of the last people to be seen with him. Unfortunately, they had an altercation yesterday.”

Altercation sounded coppish and made me irritable. I jumped to my feet, scooted around Calvin Schiller, and stared at the detective. “Peter was Carey,” I repeated.

“That might very well be the case,” Detective Scott said.

I was mad. Carey Snook had had the nerve to die with my name and number on a piece of paper in his pocket, putting me on another murder-suspect list. I’d humiliated myself by getting sick in the hallway of the sheriff’s office. Then there was my uppity lawyer who treated me like I was a grease stain on his tie. I wanted a lawyer like Andy Griffith’s
Matlock
character. A down-home, country person who ate hot dogs and sang folk songs.

“I don’t like Calvin Schiller,” I grumbled at my husband while I sat at the kitchen table, contemplating the toast and jelly on my plate that he’d shoved in front of me. “He’s a snob. He probably went to Harvard.”

“Well, so did I.” Max stood across the table from me. “Calvin is the best lawyer I know. From now on, you don’t set foot in the sheriff’s office without him.”

“I don’t want a—”

“I also took the liberty of calling Dr. Starling. You have an appointment with him in two days, right after work. I’ll stay with Sammie while you’re there.”

“You did what?” I clenched my fists. “Does Harvard have classes to teach the students how to be autocratic? So what’s next? Are you going to start telling me when to breathe?”

His nostrils flared. “If I feel like I have to, I will.”

“Your bossiness is out of control, Max. Besides, I’m feeling better now.”

“I’m out of control?” He snorted and crossed his arms.

I glared at him. He glared back. We were in danger of having another fight. Two in as many days would be two too many. I backed off, stuck my finger in the jelly, and then smeared it on the plate like Sammie does.

“We need to talk,” Max said.

“Can’t talk.” I refused to look at him. “I have to eat. That’s what you ordered me to do. And we have to go to work, you know.”

He ignored what I said. “I’ll go get ready while you finish your toast. I’ll be back, and then we’re going to talk.”

He left the room. Reduced to childishness after spending the morning with pushy men, I stuck my tongue out after him. Then I shoved another piece of toast in my mouth. With the interruption of Mr. Harvard Law School at the sheriff’s office, I hadn’t had the chance to say anything to Detective Scott about Stefanie possibly knowing Peter-Carey, nor had I mentioned that I thought the liar was trying to take over Jim Bob’s blackmail business. To me, that meant the two murders might be related. Did I dare call the detective without first contacting my cultured counsel? I was, as my mother would say, between a rock and a hard place. Help Detective Scott or obey my husband? What I really wanted to do was look at my mystery list, but I didn’t dare do it right now with Max in this mood.

I washed the crust down with my last gulp of orange juice and wondered who would have killed Peter-Carey and why. Stefanie?

Max appeared in the doorway wearing jeans and a work shirt. I wasn’t ready to forgive him enough to enjoy how he looked.

“You done?” he asked.

My plate was empty. My glass of orange juice was empty. My stomach felt okay.

“No,” I said.

He walked into the kitchen and glanced pointedly at the table. “Are you planning to eat the plate?”

“I might get something else.” I didn’t look at him. He ignored my words and sat opposite me.

“Detective Scott isn’t going to like you anymore,” I said. “And you’re not winning any popularity contests with me.”

Max shrugged. “I’m not trying to be popular. And Eric understands I’m protecting you. He told me to watch out for you when all of this started. And frankly, even if he didn’t like me, he isn’t my concern. You’re all I care about.”

I was glad Max cared for me, but I didn’t like the way he was showing it. I’d never seen him this controlling. Then again, I’d never before been interviewed by the police about two different murders.

“I didn’t kill Peter-Carey, whoever he is, and I didn’t kill Jim Bob. Why do all these people die and point the finger at me?” I looked up at him. “If I’m a suspect, do you think this means I won’t be able to teach Sunday school anymore? I love my Sunday school class.”

Max shrugged again and shook his head. “I don’t know why that would happen unless a parent complains or something. I’m going to call the pastor anyway in the next few days. I’ll talk to him about it. The problem is, I don’t know exactly how you fit into all this, but I’m worried.”

I tapped my fingers on the table. “It all makes no sense at all. Like I’m that important?”

Max’s jaw tensed. “Trish, you’re the one who said that you’re involved in all of this up to your eyeteeth. I agree. Do you recall the conversation we had last night?”

I stared at my plate. “The one where you yelled at me?”

He reached for my hand, and I reluctantly let him take it. “I’m sorry for that, but yes, that one. Listen, Trish, from what Calvin said, the sheriff’s office thinks the two murders are related.”

My suspicions were confirmed. I opened my mouth and took a breath to ask for details.

Max held up his hand. “Calvin doesn’t know anything for sure. That’s just his gut feeling. He also doesn’t think you’re top on the list of suspects, or even if you’re a suspect at all.”

I shifted in my chair. If Stefanie did indeed know Peter-Carey, then maybe she did it. I had to get my notebook out and study my clues. I also needed to investigate more.

“Honey?” Max leaned forward, eyes full of concern. “Listen to me. You found Jim Bob. For some reason, Peter wanted to talk with you. Then someone attempted to break into our house. Peter came to see you again, after which he was found dead with your name and phone number in his pocket. Not to mention this thing with Russ and the road sign. There are too many unanswered questions in which you are an active participant.”

I stared at Max but didn’t see him. Spelled out like that, it sounded really bad for me.

Chapter Fifteen

My mind whirled with thoughts I itched to write down on my list, but I had no time. Things at Four Oaks Self-Storage were crazy, people coming in one after the other, and all of them seemed to have issues and questions. That afternoon after work, I was doing chauffeur duties, picking up Karen from the library and Charlie from Mike’s.

I guided my SUV up the drive between the library and the woods that bordered the other side. Picnic tables under the tall trees of the lawn reminded me of summers past when I would bring the kids here for reading hour. After that, we’d eat lunch in the shade. I felt a rush of nostalgia that too quickly my kids were growing up. When I was young, I’d dreamed of having a huge family, but then I found out I couldn’t. I was grateful I married a man who already had children. Sammie had been my only baby.

Charlie was two when I married Max. Karen had been nine, and Tommy eleven. They weren’t too young to feel grief over the loss of their mother. I’m convinced that the loss of a parent, especially at such a young age, leaves lifelong scars that only God can mend.

From age ten to fourteen, Karen had been happy. Although she’d never been cheery like Sammie, she’d been quietly content with her head stuck in a book or listening to music. Our best times were when we read together. That’s why I couldn’t let Max take her library privileges away, even though I suspected she used the time to meet Julie.

Karen walked from the building, climbed into the car, and said nothing, just slouched in her seat and stared out the window.

I faced her. “Did you have a good time?”

She turned and glared at me. “Why would you care?”

Her tone and words burned me like fire. Perhaps the time had come to prod her and give her an avenue to vent her hostilities. That was the only way I knew to really find out what was wrong.

“Why do I care?” I murmured. “Well now, there’s a good question. Probably because I love you. And whether you like it or not, I’m your stepmother and will remain so.” I’d said the stepmother thing on purpose, knowing she would explode. I braced for the blow, asking God to help me.

Her eyes turned to slits, and a red flush crawled up her cheeks. “You’re not my real mother,” she screamed. “I hate you. The day Dad married you was the second worst day of my life.”

I turned away quickly to hide the tears that filled my eyes. She’d aimed to wound me, and it worked.

After I regained control, I faced her. “I’m not your real mother, but I’ve always loved you as though I were.”

She clenched her fists. “Well, you embarrass me. Always hanging all over Dad. Kissing him and stuff. Is that all you guys think about?”

Hurt and anger threatened to choke me. “No. But you need to remember that your father is my husband. That’s what married people do.” I paused for a breath. “Is that all that’s bothering you?”

She slammed her fist on a book in her lap. “No.” Her chin quivered. “You’re always doing something to get Dad’s attention. Like this morning. All those police there. It’s so embarrassing. And now you’re a suspect. Isn’t that just great? My stepmother, the killer. The woman who smashes people to death. How am I going to live that down?” Tears rolled down her cheeks.

I was right. She was jealous. I understood to a degree, but I’d never lost a mother. I also knew that I couldn’t deal with this problem myself, nor would it be taken care of by simple conversation. It was bigger than me or Max. God needed to intervene, and perhaps we needed to get some help.

I wished I could cry or scream back at her. Her words cut me as deeply as she’d intended. I felt as though someone had just taken a knife to my heart and sliced it into tiny slivers. But one of us had to be an adult, and since I was older and supposedly more mature, that would be me. I breathed another quick prayer for wisdom.

“Do you really think I’m a killer?” I asked softly.

Her anger must have run its course, because her body sort of folded in on itself. “No.” Then she jerked around to face me. “I suppose you’re gonna tell Dad about this?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

Her hostile silence remained as I picked up Charlie, but letting off steam had helped some.

He hopped into the backseat, mouth already in gear. “Mom, you wouldn’t believe what Mike has.” He picked up a bungee cord from the floor and held it in his hands, stretching it in the air.

“Put your seat belt on,” I ordered.

“Mike doesn’t have to wear his in the backseat,” Charlie said, bouncing up and down.

“Tough. It’s the law,” I said.

He wiggled around then snapped the buckle. “Mike has a snake. A pine snake. It’s not as cool as a boa, but it’s still cool.” He wiggled the cord, aiming for Karen’s head, and hissed.

She swiped his hand away. “Stop it, you moron.”

“Karen, don’t call him a moron. Charlie, don’t tease your sister.” I glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

I fought a bone-deep weariness unlike anything I could remember. I took the back way home, deciding no traffic lights were better than the four through town. A mile into our trip, I noticed a beige car behind us. It sped up and then slowed down, moving closer and backing off. A kid, I thought, as I deliberately lowered my speed so whoever it was would pass me.

That didn’t work. The vehicle slowed and began to keep steady with my pace. I looked more carefully in the rearview mirror, remembering how I’d been tailgated the night before. I shook my head. Not possible. I was just paranoid.

The car stayed behind me for a mile. My uneasiness mounted. Then, on a long, straight stretch of road, it leaped forward. My heart pounded. I was afraid I was going to be rammed from the rear, but that didn’t happen. It passed me. Too close, and I swerved aside, so it wouldn’t sideswipe me. I was too busy controlling my SUV to try to see the driver, but the car was one of those big old station wagons with fake wood trim on the side. As it roared on down the road, gravel flew from its tires, leaving a pockmark on my windshield.

When we got home, Karen stomped into the house, followed by Charlie, who was still babbling about snakes. I stayed out in the garage and examined my windshield.

The hole was large enough that I’d have to get it repaired or cracks would spiderweb all over the glass.

The door opened behind me. I glanced over my shoulder. Max was standing in the doorway, wearing worn blue jeans, a faded blue T-shirt, and a dark scowl. “Karen said you nearly ran off the road?”

She appeared to have a new strategy—trying to make Max think badly of me. Not that that would be hard at this point. “No, I didn’t almost run off the road,” I stated calmly, ignoring my desire to yell. “Some car passed me too close, and I swerved to get away from it. The tires spit gravel up and left this hole in my windshield. Stupid people. That’s the second time I’ve been tailgated.” I poked at the hole with my finger. “I’ll call those windshield-repair people tomorrow and see when they can come out.”

“What did you just say?” he asked very softly and forcefully.

I glanced around at him in surprise. “I said I would call the windshield-repair people to come out—”

“That’s not what I mean.” He padded on bare feet over to me, looking tall and formidable. “What did you say about the tailgating?”

I looked up at him. “Tailgating?”

“Yes.” He was breathing hard.

I frowned. “Just that I’ve been tailgated twice.”

He ran his fingers through his hair, closed his eyes, and slowed his breathing. “Why didn’t you tell me about this right away?”

“Because. . .” I hesitated. “You think it has something to do with the murders, don’t you?”

“You don’t?” he snapped. “You’re the one with lists of clues and suspects. Why wouldn’t this occur to you?”

I crossed my arms. “Well, maybe because Karen had just finished telling me that she hates me. She also said the day I married you was the second worst day of her life.”

Max slumped like I’d hit him. “Oh, baby. I’m sorry.”

I turned away from him, put my head in my hands, and cried.

Karen pitched a fit worthy of a two-year-old on Friday morning. That was because Max had grounded her from the phone and the library for two weeks, in addition to her other grounding. She was angry with me, of course, because I’d told him what she said.

I was extremely tired, having slept only fitfully. Karen’s words kept racing through my mind, as did the fact that I could be in danger, in turn endangering my children. I was also worried about Max. He wasn’t coping well. I’d never seen him like this. He might be bossy and a bit arrogant, but he had always been steady. The night before, he’d stayed in his office until the wee hours of the morning. The only good thing was that I’d noticed his Bible open on his desk.

We’d never had this kind of distance between us, and I felt like I was missing a vital organ. I kept praying, hoping for inspiration. I even got up extra early to make waffles because Max loves them, but they had no effect on him. He ate quickly, excused himself, and went into his home office to use the phone. Afterward, he kissed me good-bye and left earlier than normal.

Then Corporal Fletcher came to the door as Sammie and Charlie ran up the stairs to get ready for school.

“Mrs. C., you mind stepping outside?”

I obeyed, too tired to do otherwise. “What did I do now? Are you going to escort me to the sheriff’s office again?”

The corporal smiled. “Nope. Sarge told me to come by and talk to you about some car.”

“You mean the one tailgating me?” Max must have called Detective Scott.

Corporal Fletcher nodded and pulled his pen and notebook from his pocket. “Tell me everything.”

I did, and I gave him the best description I could, given that I hadn’t seen much.

When I was done, he put his pen and notebook in his pocket and took a deep breath. “I gotta tell you, I don’t like this. I want you to be careful, okay?”

“You sound like Max,” I said.

The corporal looked down at me, frowning. “Sarge says you been investigating.”

I nodded. “I have to find out what happened.” I looked over my shoulder to make sure one of my kids hadn’t opened the door. Then I lowered my voice. “Maybe you don’t understand, Corporal, but there’s a lot at stake here. If my brother is guilty of causing Lindsey Cunningham’s death, my stepkids might never forgive me or Russ. So, I’m asking questions, but only from people I know. It’s not like I’m out there with the scum of the earth.”

He shook his head. “Mrs. C., you need to stop. Scum doesn’t always look like scum. Sometimes they look just like us.”

I stared up at him.

He tipped his hat at me, turned, and walked down the stairs. As I watched him go to his car, I shivered.

At Four Oaks Self-Storage, Max’s car wasn’t in the parking lot. I asked Shirl where he was, but she didn’t know. She kept to herself, but her little furtive glances in my direction told me she felt my tension.

I didn’t bother calling Max’s cell phone. I was too tired. He’d come in when he was good and ready. Bleary-eyed, I put my chin in my hand and stared at my computer screen, but I couldn’t focus. The clacking of Shirl’s keyboard was punctuated by the occasional ringing of the phone. I closed my eyes and must have drifted to sleep because the sound of Max’s voice made me jump.

“Trish?”

I jerked my head up and saw him standing in the doorway.

“Are you sleeping, honey?” He walked in and shut the door behind him.

“Probably.” Max had a different air about him. The furrows in his forehead weren’t as deep.

He came over and kissed my forehead. “Mind if I sit? I need to talk to you.”

“Sure.” I waved at a chair, hoping I wasn’t in for another lecture.

He pulled it to the front of my desk and sat down, leaning his elbows on the wood top. “I’ve been to see the pastor.”

I sat up straight. “Why?” Was my biggest fear about to come true? Was Max thinking about leaving me? Tears of panic filled my eyes.

He saw my reaction and grabbed my hands. “Hey, it’s okay. I just needed to talk to him.”

“What about?” I sought assurance in Max’s gaze and found it. He wasn’t upset.

“The pastor helped us so much during premarital counseling, I thought maybe he could give me guidance now.” Max took a deep breath. “Especially about the Russ thing. I have to tell you, that bothers me a lot.”