Holly and Homicide Page 5

  “Erin?!”

  “Cam! You …came back from London.” He was wearing an exquisite black cashmere coat. Other than his upgraded wardrobe, he looked exactly the same.

  “Six years ago. I told you I would. You left New York.” He grabbed both my hands and helped me to my feet. “My God. Erin Gilbert, as beautiful as ever, standing two feet away from me.” He kissed me passionately.

  Chapter 5

  In our bedroom later that night, Steve was deliberately keeping his distance from me. “I’m sorry about the kiss, Steve. It was just such a shock, suddenly seeing him again.”

  “So you said. More than once.” His voice was cold.

  Although I was trying my best to explain, I was failing miserably. Kissing a former boyfriend in front of Steve was something I’d have sworn I would never do in a million years. “His suddenly appearing after all these years just felt so surreal. There we were with our clients and everything, and the—”

  “Which we are you referring to?” Sullivan glowered at me. “You and Cammy Boy? Because you can’t possibly mean you and me. I obviously faded into the woodwork for you the instant he walked into the room.”

  “I only expected it to be a little ‘hello’ kiss. Didn’t you notice that I pushed him away?”

  “Eventually you did, yeah.”

  “Almost immediately!”

  He snorted. “You forgot I existed. Your eyes and your head were all full of Mr. Fix-it Man. Then you eventually broke off the kiss and introduced me. As your partner.”

  “Cameron got my meaning immediately.”

  “Yeah, he did. I could tell by the way he glared at me. He seems to be a smart guy. But you could have slipped in that little phrase about our being partners right away. Maybe then he’d have settled for a handshake.”

  “I’m sorry, Steve. Deeply sorry. Letting him kiss me was thoughtless and inappropriate, I know. But, believe me, there’s nothing going on, other than my surprise at seeing a long-lost old friend.”

  “Friend?”

  “Yes. Cam’s and my romance ended nearly ten years ago. I feel nothing for him now except friendship.”

  “You’d better tell him that. That was no friendly peck on the cheek he was giving you.”

  “I will tell him that. And I’ll also tell him that I’m in love with you, just in case he’s slow on the uptake. He’s probably happily married, for all we know.”

  “Erin. Don’t be naive. No happily married man takes his old girlfriend into his arms like that. At least, not if he expects to remain happily married.”

  “Maybe he’s happily divorced, then. In any case, I’m flattered that you’re jealous, but you have nothing to worry about.”

  He looked at me with far more venom than Cameron could possibly have generated when he “glared” at Steve. “Is that supposed to make me feel better, or just you?”

  “You don’t need to be so harsh, Sullivan. I said I was sorry, and I am. I swear to you that I’ll never kiss an old boyfriend again, and anyway, there isn’t anyone else in my past remotely like him.”

  “Great. So in other words, you’re still holding a torch for him alone.”

  “No! I just meant that, out of all the guys I ever dated, he was the only one …This isn’t coming out right. The point is, I’m not holding a torch for him or for anyone except you.”

  “How lucky for me.” Steve stripped down to his boxers and undershirt, then clicked out the light. “I’m tired and I’m going to sleep now.”

  “Fine. Good night.”

  “Night.”

  Although I turned out my own light and laid my head on my pillow, I silently cursed repeatedly while replaying the lowlights of the evening. I had honestly believed Cameron was going to give me a quick kiss hello. Sullivan was truly overreacting. Yes, I’d been wrong to let myself get so enthralled by seeing Cam so unexpectedly. But that’s the challenge of major surprises—you don’t get the chance to prepare for them; it’s impossible to react with intelligent forethought. My reaction had been the result of my happiness at seeing the long-lost man who’d once meant the world to me; it had absolutely nothing to do with my relationship to Sullivan—the man who now meant even more to me. Nothing on this earth could make me drop Steve and go back to Cameron. I weighed telling Sullivan that, but he was already either feigning sleep or actually asleep. Besides, considering his current mood and my ineffective babblings tonight, he might take yet more offense. Surely this was all going to turn out fine. If we were going to be in this relationship for the long haul, we needed to know that we could get past bad times. This evening’s events definitely qualified as a bad time.

  In the morning, Sullivan was fully dressed when I awoke. We traded “good mornings.”

  “I have to head down to Crestview to meet with some reps at the office, but I’ll be back by five,” he explained. His voice was as consciously bland as his face.

  “Are you still angry with me about Cameron?”

  “No. Let’s just forget it ever happened.”

  “Okay. Well … bye.”

  I reached for him, and he gave me a reasonably nice kiss, muttered, “Bye,” then left.

  A knot formed in my stomach. I’m pretty sure that it’s impossible to activate amnesia at will and that, in any case, unresolved small problems have a way of reemerging as bigger problems later. I rehashed my resolve before falling asleep last night. What if we weren’t capable of making it through bad times?

  When I entered the kitchen, Mikara was sitting at the table, cradling a cup of coffee. She offered me a semi-cheerful, “Morning,” but followed it up with: “I assume you can serve yourself breakfast. I’m not a morning person.”

  “Isn’t that going to be problematic for running a bed-and-breakfast?”

  She arched an eyebrow and said, “I’ll rise to the occasion once our guests arrive.” Then she indeed rose—and marched out of the kitchen. It was not even half past eight, and I was two for two on driving people from the room. I was on a roll!

  Even though Crestview residents’ fondness for granola was a cliché, that’s what I chose to eat. My crunchy meal was augmented by the racket of a jackhammer and a bulldozer outside as Ben and his temporary crew demolished the stoop.

  The vibrations in the floorboards were so strong that I had visions of a bulldozer accident weakening the entire foundation. After breakfast, I went out through the back door and rounded the house. Ben Orlin was behind the controls of the small dozer as two Hispanic workmen were loading chunks of concrete into a sturdy truck bed by hand. It looked like horrid, backbreaking labor to me, and I immediately asked Ben if I could bring out a thermos of coffee or anything.

  “Nah, we’re fine,” Ben said affably, shutting off the engine. “We took a coffee break an hour ago.”

  “You’ve made a lot of progress, in just a couple of hours.”

  “Yeah, well, we got started on it last night. On Wendell’s henchman’s orders.”

  “Henchman? You mean Cameron Baker?”

  “Yeah. He made some phone calls and got them to deliver the dozer at eleven-thirty last night. Then he made the deliverymen wait and watch me operate it, ’cuz he was worried this dozer wasn’t big enough. I didn’t want to wake up everyone in the house by breaking up the concrete steps, but I finally moved enough dirt out here to convince him.”

  “That was thoughtful of you.” That did sound like something Cameron would do. He had been a workaholic in college and had scoffed at anyone who chose a less stressful lifestyle.

  He shrugged. “The noise still woke Mikara up. She was fit to be tied.”

  “I’m … really sorry that you had to lose your sleep last night to do this. Did Henry have anything to say about your having to work that late at night?”

  “Nah. He wasn’t even here. Out on a date.”

  Knowing Henry, he probably took out Chiffon Walters, to counterbalance Audrey and Wendell’s dating. The Snowcap Inn was turning into a regular Peyton Place. Of course, I was no one to t
alk. I shuddered to think how quickly Cameron’s kiss must be spreading through the village’s rumor mill.

  “Hey, Ben?” one of the workers said. “You better come take a look at this.” He was brushing off a bone that he held in one hand.

  “Where’d you find that?” Ben asked.

  My mind instantly filled with apprehension. I cursed and approached along with Ben, hoping that this was just a dog’s old bone. But there were no telltale teeth marks, and its shape and size looked all too human. Someone’s upper arm. R. Garcia’s?

  “It was in the pile of rubble,” the man explained, gesturing with his chin.

  Just then I heard someone approach, turned, and saw a grouchy-looking Wendell Barton striding toward us. “What’s everyone standing around for?” he demanded. “Ben! Did you fail to understand Mr. Baker’s directive last night that this was to be done on double time?! Why do you have a crew of just two men?”

  “There’s a problem, Wendell,” I interjected. “They found a bone in the debris from the steps. It looks like part of a human skeleton.”

  Ben showed him the bone. “Nah. That’s nothing,” Wendell said with a dismissive wave. “Probably a dog’s treasure trove. That’s hardly an excuse to stop working.”

  “Maybe not, but this is,” the second worker said, removing his gloves. He pointed at a spot in the top of the pile that the bulldozer had created, and even from where I stood—some ten feet away—I could make out the shape of a human skull. “I’m out of here. I don’t need the work this bad.” He started walking toward the driveway.

  “Wait. You can’t leave,” I told him. “We have to call the police. They’re going to want to know precisely where you found the first bone.”

  “I gotta go, too,” the second man said as he trotted down the walkway. “I’m not waiting for no police….” They both hopped into their respective pickup trucks and drove off.

  “Ben!” Wendell scolded. “Are you some kind of an idiot? Those men are obviously illegal immigrants! Didn’t you ask to see their drivers’ licenses or their papers before you hired them?”

  “No, Mr. Barton. I have a hard enough time getting workmen without—”

  “This town’s chomping at the bit to shut us down!” Wendell growled. “I can’t risk getting socked with a fine or work-stoppage due to hiring illegal immigrants!”

  While Wendell carped at Ben, I dialed 911 on my cell phone. When the dispatcher answered, I said, “My name is Erin Gilbert and I’m calling from Henry Goodwin’s house on Goodwin Road, in Snowcap Village.” I paused. “I’m sorry. This isn’t an emergency. Force of habit. But a crew that was digging up some cement steps came across some human bones. I’m pretty sure they were from the grave that was robbed earlier in the week.”

  “How do you know that the bones have been moved from a grave?”

  “I don’t. It’s an educated guess.”

  “Erin!” Wendell snapped in a half whisper. “Hang up! We can’t get the police involved in this!”

  “It’s too late,” I replied calmly. “They’re on their way.”

  Chapter 6

  Fifteen minutes later, nicely bundled up in a stylish plum parka and white Lycra ski pants, Chiffon came outside; Audrey was long gone, having left for a film session at the local TV studio. I barely had a moment to consider how interesting it was that Chiffon was emerging from the inn, considering she owned a condo ten minutes away. She appeared to have spent the night here. Ben rushed to fill her in on the workers’ grisly discovery.

  Some five minutes after Chiffon joined Ben and me, Sheriff Mackey, the superior officer in Snowcap, finally arrived, driven here by a second officer who had all the assertiveness of a whipped puppy dog. With V-shaped eyebrows that echoed his receding hairline, the sheriff bore a passing resemblance to Jack Nicholson. Frankly, he seemed to have no idea what to do. He interviewed Ben; asked about the men—Pedro and Juan Martinez; asked if Ben himself had seen “any bones or bonelike fragments” while he was digging, which he hadn’t; and was then stymied. Ben volunteered the fact that I’d been talking to him when the bones were discovered, so unasked, I recounted what little I’d seen and heard. That took me less than sixty seconds. Even at that, Mackey acted utterly uninterested.

  “You’re one of the designers from Crestview, aren’t you,” he stated with obvious disdain.

  “Yes, I’m Erin Gilbert of Sullivan and Gilbert Designs. I’m the one who called nine-one-one.”

  “Yeah. Why’d you consider it an emergency? ’Fraid the bones would vanish before I could get here to see ’em?”

  “No, I was afraid the workers who uncovered the bones would vanish. They were already driving away when I called.”

  Mackey pivoted and said, “Hey, Ben? Where’s Henry Goodwin? Doesn’t he care about these here events?”

  “He and Wendell Barton are having a powwow,” Ben replied. “They’re someplace inside the house.”

  Sheriff Mackey snorted. “That figures. Mayor Goodwin’s sellout continues. We’ll fix his wagon.” Just then, Mikara rounded the house to join us. Mackey turned to face the second officer, who was standing sentinel by the patrol car. “Penderson?” Mackey shouted, “Let’s just cordon off the entire grounds … since we don’t know what else we might find. Or where.”

  “That’s not really necessary, is it?” I asked. “Several of us are living here, and we know there are no bones inside the house.”

  “Plus, I don’t really have enough tape,” the deputy said. “Can’t I just …circle all the dug-up area?”

  “Won’t that prevent anyone from building new steps?” Chiffon asked.

  “Yeah, so what?” Mackey asked. “You can use the back door.”

  “Sure. And now that Ben won’t be able to work on the porch steps, he can get started on my gingerbread design.”

  “You’ve got Ben Orlin baking?” the sheriff asked in dismay.

  “No, building a big gorgeous Christmas design,” she replied with a bright smile. “We’re going to make this whole big home look like the candy house from Hansel and Gretel.”

  “The witch’s gingerbread house was where she baked the children in the oven, right?” the sheriff asked.

  “I don’t remember what happened. Just that the house was edible, and there was a trail of bread crumbs that the birds ate.”

  Sheriff Mackey grinned. “I sure don’t want to stop Mayor Goodwin from turning Wendell’s inn into a witch’s cottage. Sure, Chiffon. You go right on ahead with your little design project. We’ll keep the cordoning of the house confined to the porch steps.”

  “Awesome! Thanks, Greggy!”

  Greggy? “Sheriff Mackey?” I said with a deferential lilt to my voice, “Do you think those bones could have come from the grave that was robbed a few days ago?”

  He gave me the evil eye and seemed disinclined to answer until he followed my gaze and saw that Henry and Wendell were approaching us. Mackey said in a near shout, “That’s one possibility, Miss Gilbert. Or maybe these cement steps were built to hide someone’s grave … and someone’s unsolved murder.”

  In what struck me as a futile exercise designed purely to annoy Henry and Wendell, the sheriff ordered Ben Orlin to move the two piles of dirt and debris a short distance away. Mackey claimed he needed to see if they contained any more bones. They did not. Two hours later, he told us to leave everything where it was and he’d get back to us about when Ben could complete the demolition. Henry and Wendell tried in vain to get him to commit to a time frame.

  Chiffon, meanwhile, showed me her plans for slapping ugly painted gingerbreadish Masonite over the classy gray-and-white-trimmed siding and forest green shutters, and we agreed that none of the existing hooks for lights—along the eaves and window casings—would be affected. Within fifteen minutes of the sheriff’s departure, I was ready to devote what remained of my morning and the afternoon to hanging the exterior lights.

  Henry had told me that many light strands had been stored in the shed, so I crossed the sno
w-crusted back lawn, pausing to admire the gazebo. That structure would require additional lighting—all white, miniature lights, I decided. I dearly hoped Chiffon wasn’t considering turning the gazebo into a gingerbread doghouse.

  I hesitated at the closed door to the shed. The padlock was open and hanging from the hook and, from inside, a woman’s voice shouted, “No way! That’s a terrible idea!”

  “What do you mean?!” a second woman shouted. “It’s the perfect solution, and you know it!”

  Henry was crossing the lawn from the footbridge over the creek; this was a walk he took early every morning, but today’s events had pushed it back to a few minutes after eleven. Just as the first voice retorted, “I know no such thing! It’s dangerous!” Henry spotted me and called, “Erin! Did you find the Christmas lights?”

  I had no choice but to call back, “Not yet. I’m about to look for them now.”

  Unsurprisingly, the voices in the shed instantly fell silent. I opened the rustic, barnlike door and stepped inside. Mikara and Angie Woolf were staring at me. “Hello,” I said.

  “Hi, Erin,” Mikara said. “You’re ready to hang the lights now?”

  “I hope to.”

  “I’ll get them for you. I know right where they are.” Mikara turned and headed to a back shelf.

  I looked at Angie, who probably felt as awkward as I did. With Mikara leaving us both standing there, I was obliged to say something to Angie, but was at a loss. Saying “Good to see you again” to someone you’d interrupted in an argument seemed inappropriate. Instead I muttered lamely: “Are you just here to visit, or are you giving us another inspection?”

  “Just visiting my sister. Family matters.” She trudged past me and called over her shoulder, “Bye, Mikara.”

  “Take care, Angie,” Mikara replied. She carried a large box toward me and rolled her eyes when our gazes met. “Family drives you crazy, no matter how small it happens to be.” She brushed past me, saying, “I’ll take this to the back porch for you. There’s more right on that shelf. You’ll have to make a couple of trips.”