Wine and Punishment Page 16

  “I thought you might be in need of a break,” Mel said when she reached the Inkwell’s table.

  “But it’s your day off,” I reminded her as I passed out samples of the Lovecraft.

  “I don’t mind hanging out here for an hour or two.”

  “Really? Because that would be fantastic.”

  She shooed me out of the folding chair. “You go on. I’ll take care of things here.”

  “I’ll nip over to the pub and get the backup bottles before I do anything else,” I said. “We’re all out of Huckleberry Gin and running low on the others.”

  Mel eyed the two nearly empty bottles sitting on the table. “Looks like they’ve been as popular as ever.”

  “Thankfully.”

  A group of four tourists approached the table, so I told Mel I’d be back soon and ducked out of the tent, one of the empty coolers in hand. When I reached the Inkwell, I only hung around long enough to use the facilities and restock the cooler.

  “I’m going to go find something to eat,” I told Mel upon my return to the tent.

  “Take your time,” she said as she served more tourists.

  Once outside the tent again, I headed straight for the line of food trucks that had been allowed to park along Hemlock Street during the festival. A myriad of delicious smells wafted through the air, making my stomach grumble more loudly than ever. It wasn’t easy to decide what to eat—there was Greek food, Mexican food, burgers, and several other choices. In the end, I settled on quesadillas and black cherry lemonade.

  Picnic tables had been set up nearby for the duration of the festival, and I plunked myself down at one end of the only vacant one. My mouth watering, I dug into my meal, enjoying every bite and every sip. I was about halfway through my quesadillas when I became aware of the people at the table next to mine. Four women sat there, eating salads and burgers as they chatted. I didn’t know any of their names, but I recognized a couple of faces, so I figured they were locals rather than tourists. As I took a long sip of my lemonade, Vera Anderson joined them, carrying a salad from one of the food trucks.

  “Any word on the arson investigation, Doris?” she asked once she was settled at the table and had greeted the other women.

  Those words caught my attention. Although I kept eating, I cast surreptitious glances their way and zeroed in on their conversation.

  A woman with short dark hair sprinkled with gray replied to the question. “Not yet.” She let out a heavy sigh. “And the insurance company is giving us a hard time.”

  “Why’s that?” one of the other women asked.

  “They insinuated that Barry might have been the one to burn down the shop.”

  One of her companions gasped.

  “It’s ridiculous,” Doris said firmly. “Barry had nothing to do with it, of course.”

  “I suppose it doesn’t help that he didn’t respond to phone calls right away,” Vera said.

  “You mean on the night of the fire?” a blond woman asked.

  Vera gave a prim nod as she speared half a cherry tomato with her plastic fork. “Greg Wilmer tried to phone him from the scene of the fire, but it took a few tries before he answered.”

  “He was sound asleep,” Doris said defensively. “And so was I. Plus, Greg called Barry’s cell phone first, and he’d left it in the kitchen.”

  “I’m sure he did,” Vera said, though her tone suggested otherwise. “I just mean that from the investigators’ point of view, it might seem like he didn’t answer because he was out of the house, returning from the shop after lighting the fire.”

  I pretended to only be interested in my quesadillas, but when I shot another sneaky glance their way, I saw that Doris’s face was flushed.

  “That’s ridiculous,” she said.

  “I’m not saying that’s what happened, only that it might look that way to some people.”

  “Well, those people would be wrong. Barry loved that shop. And you couldn’t pay him a million bucks to start a fire. His family’s house burned down when he was ten, and he’s been terrified of fire ever since. He won’t even light a match.”

  “Hopefully the investigators will believe that.” Vera sounded like she didn’t particularly believe it herself.

  Doris excused herself and left the table, a frown on her face.

  “It’s true,” one of the other women said when she was gone. “I’ve known Barry and Doris since before they moved to town. He really is terrified of even the smallest flame.”

  They didn’t say much more on the subject, soon chatting instead about the festival and the next day’s pumpkin pie baking contest. That reminded me of my upcoming judging duties. Despite Shontelle’s wary view of the contest, I was looking forward to it. I loved pumpkin pie.

  I finished up my meal and tossed the garbage and recyclables into their respective bins. I’d been away from the tent for well under an hour, so I decided to take a little more time to do a bit of my own investigating. From the conversation I’d overheard, I figured it was safe to assume that Doris was Barry’s wife. If he really was too terrified to so much as light a match, then he didn’t belong on my suspect list. But someone had burned down the antiques shop. Who else would have had reason to?

  Doris, possibly. With or without her husband’s knowledge, she might have decided to put an end to his business before it lost them any more money. She didn’t look like an arsonist, but what did an arsonist look like anyway?

  There was also the landlord, Frank Fournier, to consider. But why would he want to burn down the building? It had housed two units, one occupied by Barry’s business. The other one had stood empty the whole time I’d lived in Shady Creek. That struck me as odd, now that I thought about it. The building was just a stone’s throw away from the village green, so it should have been a prime location for any business geared toward tourists.

  I wondered if Rhonda could shed some light on that. She worked as a secretary for Mr. Fournier, so there was a good chance she’d know at least something about the various properties he owned around town. I could afford to make a quick visit to the offices of Fournier Real Estate and Developments and still get back to the tent before Mel had been there too long. Deciding on that course of action, I crossed the grass and followed Maple Street a block away from the green before turning left. I’d never been inside Mr. Fournier’s office, but I’d walked past it on several occasions, so I knew where to find it.

  It took me less than five minutes to reach my destination. When I stepped into the reception area, I was relieved to see Rhonda behind her desk. I quickly realized she wasn’t alone, however. A tall, balding man in a gray business suit stood next to her desk, speaking to her.

  “So please set up a meeting with O’Reilly for early next week,” he said to Rhonda before sending a brilliant smile my way. “Good afternoon. Frank Fournier.” He offered me his hand and gave mine a good shake when I took it. “How can I help you today?”

  “Sadie Coleman,” I said once I had my hand back. “I’m a friend of Rhonda’s. I was passing, so I thought I’d pop in to say hi to her. But I don’t want to interrupt if you’re both busy.”

  Mr. Fournier waved off my comment. “I’m on my way out to a meeting, but I’m in no hurry. And I’m sure Rhonda can spare a minute or two. You didn’t take much of a lunch break today, did you, Rhonda?”

  “Just fifteen minutes,” she said.

  “Then you’re due for another one.” He returned his attention to me. “You’re the new owner of the pub, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right,” I replied.

  He gave a satisfied nod. “I knew I recognized your name. I always keep tabs on all the real estate goings-on in this town.”

  “Speaking of real estate,” I said, jumping at the chance to segue into a possibly enlightening conversation, “I’m sorry about the building you lost to the fire.”

  “Thank you,” Mr. Fournier said, his face growing serious. “It’s quite a loss, but we must move forward in the face of adve
rsity.” His flashy smile returned.

  “Do you have any plans for rebuilding?” I asked.

  His smile faltered before he fixed it back in place. “Not as of yet. All in due time.” He checked his silver wristwatch. “I’m afraid I must be on my way now. It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Coleman.”

  “You too,” I said, but he was already on his way out the door.

  Rhonda watched him disappear from sight before leaning toward me across her desk. “He wasn’t telling the truth,” she said in a hushed voice, although I couldn’t see or hear any sign of anyone else nearby.

  “About his plans for rebuilding?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Hold on a moment.” She pushed back her chair and got up from behind the desk, hurrying through a door to an inner office. I heard the sound of rustling papers before she reappeared a moment later, shutting the door behind her. She set a large sheet of paper out on the desk and smoothed it out. “See?”

  I stepped closer for a better look. The paper appeared to be part of a set of blueprints for a building, I realized as I studied the design. “What’s this for? A hotel?”

  “A boutique hotel,” Rhonda confirmed. “He’s been planning to put one on that site for weeks now, maybe even for months.”

  “But why lie about that unless . . .”

  “Unless he didn’t want to look like he had a reason to burn down his own building,” Rhonda finished, her eyes wide. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “Hold on a second. So what if he wants to build a hotel? Why not just tear down what was there and get on with the project?”

  “He’s been losing money on the place. There was a lot of water damage in the second unit from a pipe that burst last winter, and there’s also been a bit of a . . . rodent problem.”

  I made a face. “That’s why the second unit has been empty for so long?”

  Rhonda nodded. “And Barry Lanik’s lease had another year on it, and he wasn’t interested in making any sort of deal to cut it short. That’s one of the reasons Mr. Fournier and Barry haven’t been getting along.”

  My ears perked up at that. “They don’t get along?”

  “They haven’t for more than a year. Barry tried to get Mr. Fournier to lower his rent, but of course he didn’t agree. Ever since, they’ve squabbled over every little thing.”

  “So maybe Mr. Fournier saw arson as the best way to get rid of Barry and his business quickly so he could get on with building his boutique hotel?”

  Rhonda’s eyes were still wide. “I’m crazy for thinking that, right?”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  Her face fell. “I should tell the police about all of this, shouldn’t I?”

  “That might be a good idea.”

  “But if I’m wrong and he’s innocent, I could lose my job if he finds out I talked to the police about him.”

  “Maybe he won’t find out. And if he is an arsonist, he shouldn’t get away with it. Besides, there’s a possibility that the arsonist could also be Eric’s murderer.”

  Rhonda’s already wide eyes looked about ready to pop out of her head. “Really?”

  “The two crimes aren’t necessarily connected, but now I’m thinking it’s something to consider.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment. “I’ve been so worried about all of this. I’ve wanted to tell someone, but I wasn’t sure if I should.”

  “I’m glad you told me, and I really do think you should tell the police.”

  She sighed. “I will, but I hope I’m wrong to suspect Mr. Fournier.”

  She glanced past me toward the front window. I followed her line of sight and saw Harvey peering through the glass at us. He waved, and I waved back as Rhonda hurriedly rolled up the blueprints. As Harvey entered the office, she dashed through the inner door with the rolled-up paper. I heard what sounded like a metal drawer shutting, and then she was back.

  “Afternoon, ladies,” Harvey greeted us. He kissed Rhonda on the cheek. “I just stopped by to say hi and to bring you this.” He handed Rhonda a takeout coffee cup.

  “It’s been good to see you both, but I need to get back to the festival,” I said, already heading for the door. “Talk to you again soon.”

  I pushed my way out the door with a wave and hurried back to the village green, not wanting to impose on Mel any longer. I spent the rest of the afternoon serving more samples and handing out brochures about the Inkwell, but the entire time, my mind was spinning with all the information Rhonda had shared with me.

  Chapter 18

  When I returned to the mill after the tent had closed down for the day, I ate a peanut butter sandwich for dinner—sharing some of the peanut butter with Wimsey—and then flopped down on the couch. It had been five days since Grayson and I had found Eric’s body by the creek, and the police had yet to charge anyone with his murder. I hoped the cops were closer to fingering the culprit than I was. I had plenty of suspects, some stronger than others, but I didn’t think I was on the verge of proving that any one of them was the killer.

  I couldn’t help but think of Eric’s family and how tough it must be for them to know his murderer was still on the loose, not paying for taking their son and brother away from them. That thought tugged my spirits down toward the floor. I stared up at the ceiling, unable to muster the energy required to move. Wimsey hopped up on the couch near my legs and walked across my stomach to settle on my left shoulder.

  “Hey, buddy.” I stroked his fur, and he closed his eyes, purring. “I wish my life were as simple as yours.”

  His purring subsided as he drifted off to sleep. I was tempted to do the same, even though it was early in the evening. Deciding that didn’t matter, I shut my eyes, allowing myself to relax. My attempted nap didn’t last long. Within a minute or two of closing my eyes, my cell phone rang on the coffee table.

  I reached out to grab it, trying not to disturb Wimsey in the process. He cracked open his eyes but otherwise didn’t move. I checked the screen of my phone. It was my younger brother, Taylor, calling.

  “To what do I owe this honor?” I asked by way of greeting. “I don’t remember the last time the King of Texts actually phoned me.”

  “Dire situations call for dire measures,” Taylor said, his tone good-natured, as it usually was.

  “I think I’ve had enough dire situations to last me the rest of the month, thank you. Actually, make that the rest of the year.”

  “Sorry, Sis. This one’s not of my making.”

  “So what’s wrong?” I wasn’t too worried, since he didn’t sound concerned.

  “I saw the news about Eric’s death on Facebook. Natalie wrote a post about it.”

  I winced. “I’m sorry that’s how you found out. I should have let you know.”

  “I’m sure you’ve had a lot on your mind. I can’t believe someone killed him! It’s hard to wrap my head around it. But what I really called to say is that somebody saw Natalie’s post and told their mom, who then told our mother.”

  I groaned, slapping my free hand to my forehead. “Don’t tell me . . .”

  “Yep. I can pretty much guarantee you’re going to get a phone call from her in the immediate future.”

  I sighed, deciding to deal with the inevitable head-on. “I’ll call her first.”

  “Good idea. But before you go, how are you holding up?”

  “I’m all right. But I’ll feel better once Eric’s killer is caught and put behind bars.”

  “I bet. It’s crazy. I can’t believe someone killed him. I mean, I kind of wanted to wring his neck after all those times he lied to you, but why would anyone else want to hurt him?”

  “That’s the question.” And I had several answers to it. I just wished I knew which one was the right one.

  We chatted for another minute or so about his job as a tattoo artist, then wrapped up our conversation.

  “Thanks for the warning,” I said.

  “No problem. Good luck.”

  I was probably going to ne
ed it.

  After I’d ended the call with Taylor, I logged onto Facebook and found the post he’d mentioned. I had to fight tears as I read Natalie’s tribute to her brother. She wrapped it up by stating that her family was planning a funeral that would take place soon in Philadelphia. For a second, I wondered if I should make plans to go to the funeral, but I quickly decided against that idea. I needed to stay at the Inkwell, and I didn’t want to make things awkward for anyone.

  I got off the Internet and simply stared at my phone for a full minute before selecting my mom’s number.

  “Here we go, Wimsey,” I said to my cat.

  He continued snoozing away.

  My mom picked up after the first ring.

  “Sadie Elizabeth Coleman,” she said to start, and I knew that wasn’t a good sign. “Why on earth didn’t you call me sooner?”

  “Sorry, Mom. I’ve had a lot going on.”

  “A lot going on? Sadie, I had to hear about Eric’s death from Mary Beth Robinson in the middle of the grocery store. What do you think that was like?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said again, sincerely this time. “I should have called.”

  “Yes, you should have.” She let out a sigh on the other end of the line, and I hoped she was releasing some of her disappointment in me along with it. “Have they caught the killer?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then you need to pack up and come home.”

  I sat up, dislodging a perturbed Wimsey from my shoulder. “Mom! I can’t pack up and go anywhere. I’ve got a business to run.”

  “You won’t be running anything if you get murdered in your sleep.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “There’s a killer on the loose,” she reminded me unnecessarily. “What kind of town is it you’re living in, anyway?”

  “Mom, there are murders in Knoxville every year. Far more than here in Shady Creek.”