Rose Hill (12 page)

“It was a really brave thing to do.”

“I didn’t feel brave. In a way, I was as desperate as the previous owner was. I wanted my own business, my own space, my own life.”

“Fate brought you together.”

“I don’t know about that, but it was lucky for me.”

“So are you glad you did it?”

“Some days I wonder what in the world I was thinking.”

“I have days like those
, myself.” Drew said.

“I’ve been dying to ask you why you moved here,” Maggie said. “Start at the beginning.”

“It’s not a long story,” he said.

Drew’s answer was interrupted by a staff member calling Maggie to the phone, and by the time she was finished dealing with the call Drew had to go.

“We’ll continue this conversation soon,” Maggie said. “Promise me.”

“Absolutely,” he said, smiling. “Besides, I want to see that great apartment you’ve got upstairs. Hannah has been raving about it.”

Maggie realized Hannah had been doing some matchmaking, which was her third favorite hobby after eating and gossiping. She didn’t really mind it, though, come to think of it. Drew Rosen was a nice, attractive man, and when he touched her hand, she felt a little spark.

Scott was on his way back to the station from lunch at the diner when his cell phone rang. He answered it to Maggie saying, “You need to get over here to the bookstore right away.”

Scott stopped in his tracks.

“Why? What’s happened?”

“Theo’s sister Gwyneth is in my bookstore, Chief Gordon,” Maggie hissed, “and if you don’t come and remove her within the next five minutes, you’ll have another dead Eldridge on your hands.”

She hung up with a loud bang. Scott shook his head and started back in the direction of Little Bear Books. Talking to Maggie Fitzpatrick could be like a right to the chin, a left to the stomach, and a knee to the groin, all before you could get your wits about you and your dukes up.

When he arrived at the bookstore the situation looked civil enough, although Scott could feel the tension crackling in the air like electricity around a transformer just before lightning strikes it. The staff members were covertly watching, some with worried expressions, and some with delighted anticipation.

Gwyneth Eldridge was obviously the elegant blonde to whom Maggie was serving cappuccino. She had all the stereotypical accoutrements of a rich city dweller, including a severe blonde haircut and a business suit. Her expensive looking clothing, handbag, and cell phone were all black. Everything about her was young and fashionable except for her gnarled looking hands and drawn, gaunt face, which seemed to have a peeved expression permanently etched upon it. When she spoke Scott noted she hadn’t lost her affected British accent, much like the one her brother Theo could turn on and off at will.

As he approached the table Gwyneth was saying to Maggie, “I’m surprised you don’t have more requests for soy. This is nonfat milk, though, correct?”

“I get it fresh from anorexic cows every morning,” Maggie said through clenched teeth, and Gwyneth, not knowing how dangerous it was, actually tut-tutted her in return.

“My private psychology practice in Manhattan is largely devoted to young women with serious eating disorders, Aggie, and even though that is something you obviously don’t suffer from, you really shouldn’t joke about it.”

The pink blotches on Maggie’s cheeks deepened to a hazardous level red, and Scott swooped in between the two women before Maggie could pick up Gwyneth’s twig-like frame and snap it in two.

“Hello Gwyneth, you probably don’t remember me,” he said. “I’m Scott Gordon.”

He offered his hand for her to shake, which she did, with a couple
of cold, limp, bony fingers, as he said, “I’m the chief of police here in Rose Hill.”

“I certainly would have remembered you had I met you, Todd,” Gwyneth said appreciatively, and gestured for him to sit.

“It’s Scott,” he said as he sat down, “and it was a long time ago. This was a clothing store back then.”

“I wouldn’t even be in here, Todd,” she said, looking around with distaste, “Were I not in desperate need of a decent cup of cappuccino. I should have known it would be impossible to find one this far from civilization.”

“It’s Scott,” he said again, “and I think their cappuccino is really good.”

“Obviously you have never had a real cappuccino,” Gwyneth assured him. “In Manhattan the baristas perform the theater of espresso. It’s really as much
a performance art as it is a kind of urban communion.”

Scott couldn’t think of any appropriate response to such a statement.

“I’m so sorry about your brother,” he said instead, thinking it wise to change the subject before ceramics were launched from behind the counter.

Gwyneth immediately teared up in a dramatic but studied way, and touched her eyes with the paper napkin Scott handed her. With her eyes full of tears and her lower lip trembling, Scott finally saw the sulky teenager he remembered from
so many years ago, lurking behind the sophisticated façade.

“That is so kind of you to say, Todd. I was shocked at the news, of course, and immediately rescheduled all my patients so I could be here, to manage things.”

“Well, it’s certainly good to have you back in our little town,” Scott said.

“Little town? It’s more like a stage set for a fa
rce,” she said. “The Irish own the pub; the Italians own the pizza parlor; it’s just so stereotypical, so rife with clichés.”

Scott saw Maggie’s head pop up from behind the counter and held his hand up to stop her.

“So Italians in Manhattan don’t own Italian restaurants?” he asked. “And there are no Irish pubs?”

“Touché, Todd, touché,” Gwyneth said. “Still, it’s such a primitive way to live, n’est ce pas? With murderous hillbillies roaming the streets, attacking innocent, civilized people.”

“As opposed to Manhattan, I guess,” Scott said, “where it’s so safe.”

“You’re one of a type yourself, aren’t you, Todd?” Gwyneth said. “The polite, dimwitted sheriff of a one horse town. Do you have a town drunk and a town whore as well?”

Scott hadn’t even seen Maggie approach the table, but there she was next to Gwyneth, cheeks a melt-down level of code scarlet, pulling the fragile blonde up by the shoulder of her expensive jacket and jerking her towards the door. Scott scooped up Gwyneth’s handbag and hung it over the frightened woman’s free arm. He didn’t want to stop Maggie, he wanted to help.

“Your brother was the town drunk, Gwyneth,” Maggie said, “so I guess that position is open; and although I’d vote for you as town whore, our men like a little more meat on the bone. Not that I’m joking about your obvious eating disorder so much as I’m pointing out what a dried up old rack of bones you’ve turned into. If you step one foot in th
is store ever again, so help me God, I’ll soak you in hillbilly cappuccino and throw you to one of our stereotypical dogs to gnaw on.”

Gwyneth protested all the way to the front door, using declarations that began, “Well, I mean really,” and “You can’t possibly,” and “What do you think you’re,” ending with, “I can’t believe you just…” as Maggie shoved her out the door, slammed it shut, and locked it behind her.

There were at least twenty people in the bookstore watching this happen, and they all applauded and cheered as Maggie strode to the banned customer dry erase board of shame, and wrote Gwyneth’s name in large block letters at the top.

Scott clapped and whistled. Lord, but he loved that woman.

As Scott walked back towards the station, Ed flagged him down and asked him to come back to the newspaper office for a chat. Once inside, he offered Scott some sludgy black coffee that Scott knew from experience he should decline. They sat at the solid oak worktable next to the gas stove, which kept the newspaper office snug and warm. Ed’s new black lab was sound asleep on Goudy’s old bed in front of the stove.

“What’s his name?” Scott asked.

“I couldn’t decide between Helvetica and Harrington, so I’m calling him Hank.”

“Looks like he feels right at home.”

“He’s doing great. Somebody must have worked with him at some point, because he already has good manners. I still can’t leave him alone with any food or garbage.”

“He learned some survival skills in the wild, huh?”

Ed nodded, looking down at the lab with warm affection.

“You know Tommy,” Ed said, changing the subject.

“Mandy’s boy.”

“Delivers my papers,” Ed said. “Tommy saw something the night Theo got killed and it’s worrying him. He said I could tell you about it.”

“What’s that?”

“He heard Theo and Phyllis’s son Billy fighting outside their trailer. He was
asleep when the yelling woke him up. He saw Billy run off and Theo hit Phyllis.”

Scott sat back, and said, “Whoa.”

“Exactly,” Ed said.

“What time of night was it?” Scott asked him.

“He said his mom comes home at 2:00, and she wasn’t home yet. He thinks it was around 1:30.”

“It must have been right
after Theo got kicked out of the Thorn. Did Tommy see anything else?”

“He says he didn’t
,” Ed told him. “He’s really worried about Billy finding out he told, and about being in trouble with his mother for what he called peeping.”

“Meaning he often sees what goes on inside Phyllis’ trailer?”

“I think he probably does.”

“Well, that’s mighty interest
ing,” Scott said. “Do you think he’ll talk to me?”

“I think Tommy’s more afraid of getting beaten up by Billy or grounded by his mom than talking to the police. I could arrange for you both to meet here if it’s okay with you.”

“He should have his mother with him when I talk to him,” Scott said.

“I told Tommy he needed to let her know what was going on,” Ed said. “He said he would.”

Scott slapped his hand down on the table and said, “That’s settled then. You let me know when they can be here and I’ll stop by.”

“Will do.”

“Are you okay?” Scott asked him, pointing to the bruise on his head.

“Oh yeah,” Ed replied. “Gave me a hell of a headache. But you know all about those.”

Scott started to say he was sorry about everything that had happened, but someone came in so he left.

Later in the afternoon Scott got a call from Ed and was able to interview Tommy in the backroom of the newspaper office. Tommy said he told his mother about it and she said it was okay for him to talk to Scott if Ed was there.

Scott reassured the boy right away that he was not in trouble for seeing what was going on at Phyllis’s. Tommy hid his eyes under his floppy brown hair as he haltingly told him what he had seen. Scott looked over the gangly, skinny twelve-year-old and saw he was growing much faster than his mama could keep up with clothing-wise. His jeans were a good three inches too short and his skinny wrists stuck out way beyond his coat sleeves.

“What was the fight about?”

Tommy shrugged.

“Could you hear anything that was said?”

“Naw, just yelling. Theo was really mad, and he went after Billy, but Billy ran.”

“Then what happened?”

“He hit Phyllis in the face, and she fell down.”

“And then?”

“He yelled at her again and left.”

“What did he yell?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Which way did he go?”

“Down the alley.”

“Then what happened?”

“Phyllis got up and went in the house.”

“Where was Billy?”

Tommy shrugged.

“Did you hear Billy come home afterward?” he asked.

Tommy shook his head.

“So what did you do?”

“I went back to sleep.”

Scott doubted the boy was able to go back to sleep so quickly after seeing such a violent fight, but he didn’t want to traumatize him over his reluctance to admit it.

“Was there anybody with Theo you could see, besides Phyllis and Billy?”

Tommy shook his head.

“If you think of anything else, Tommy, you tell Ed, okay?”

Tommy nodded, his whole body leaning toward the door in his strong desire to go through it.

“Okay, you can go,” Scott said. “I appreciate your help.”

After the boy left, Scott said to Ed, “I think he might have seen more, but I’m afraid if I push harder he’ll just clam up.”

“Do you want me to pressure him?” Ed asked.

“No,” Scott replied. “I think if you let it go completely he w
ill be more apt to tell you, given time.”

“Do you remember how I came to hire Tommy?” Ed said.

“Sorry,” Scott said. “I don’t remember the details.”

“Jane Anne Porter was the paper carrier when I came back after Dad died,” Ed said. “You remember her?”