Софи Райан - A Whisker Оf Trouble

“Put them together and I’ll call her,” I said.

I was out working on the metal cabinet a couple of hours later when Mac came to the back door. “Sarah, phone,” he called.

I set down my scraper, brushed my hands on my jeans and sprinted across the parking lot. “Do you know who it is?” I asked as I headed for the phone at the cash desk.

“She said her name was Skye,” Mac said.

I smiled. Skye Reynolds was the promotions director for Tanner Media, who owned that radio station I used to work for. It was Skye I’d called to see if she could come up with some way to help Ellie Hall.

“Hey, Sarah,” Skye said. “I just wanted to check in with you. Look, are you sure those people you called me about actually want help?”

“Yes,” I said. “Why?”

“We have a showcase coming up next month. Half a dozen up-and-coming bands. You know how it works.”

I did.

“I called the husband’s office and talked to his teaching assistant. I was thinking we could turn it into a fund-raiser.”

I could hear her tapping the end of her pen on her desk. “So, what’s wrong with the idea?” I remembered Ellie saying they didn’t want to take charity. Was Ethan so proud that he’d turn down a fund-raiser on Ellie’s behalf?

“The husband’s going to be away on that weekend,” Skye said. It was impossible to miss the sarcasm in her voice.

“What do you mean, away?” I asked.

“Hawaii.”

“That’s got to be a mistake.”

“It’s not,” she said. “Look, Sarah, I’m happy to help. You know these kinds of stories are great for us. Listeners eat this stuff up. But if this guy’s wife needs surgery, what the heck’s he doing going to Hawaii?”

I didn’t have an answer. I told Skye I’d find out what was going on, thanked her for what she’d done so far and hung up.

“Something wrong?” Mac asked.

I rubbed the back of my neck. “I’m not sure.”

“Is there anything I can do?” he said.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “But thanks.”

I went back out to my metal cabinet. I’d taken off about half the old finish. I walked around the piece, seeing in my mind the way it would look when I was finished. Avery, I’d discovered, could do the same thing.

I’d let her work on a small side table I’d trash-picked. After sanding and priming, she’d painted it white. The front of the single drawer got two coats of lime green. She also taped off the tips of the tapered legs and painted them the same green. The sides she Mod-Podged with a bold lime-and-cobalt geometric design paper.

“I like it,” I’d said when she took me out to the old garage to show me her work. “How did you decide on the design?”

“I don’t know,” she’d said with a shrug. “It’s kind of like to me, it’s what was there—at least in my head—under all the crap.”

I wondered if the answer to Ronan Quinn’s death was under all the crap somewhere. Just then Nick’s SUV pulled in to the parking lot. Charlotte waved at me from the passenger seat. I walked over to them.

“Hi,” I said. “You’re early.”

“I brought Nicolas over to show him that wrought-iron bed frame,” she said. “Is it still in the workroom?”

I nodded. “It’s wrapped in a couple of old blankets against the end wall. Mac will get it out for you.” I looked at Nick. “Does it have to be wrought iron? There’s a nice dark walnut headboard that might work for you. Either way I’ll give you the family discount.”

“Thanks,” he said with a smile. “I don’t really know what I want, mainly just something to get my mattress up off the floor.”

“Are you bringing either of the bedroom sets from Edison Hall’s house down here?” Charlotte asked.

I shook my head. “I’d like to try to sell them on-site if we can. We don’t really have the space to have everything set up here. But there is a spool bed. It needs a little work, though. A couple of the slats are cracked.”

“Too small,” Charlotte said. “We need something for a double mattress.”

“The wrought-iron one, then,” I said.

“I’ll get Mac to get it out,” Charlotte said, heading for the door.

“Do I get a vote?” Nick said to me.

“Probably not,” I said with a grin.

He smiled back at me. “Michelle told me about your little adventure yesterday. It sounds like Alfred missed his calling.”

“Can you keep a secret?” I asked.

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. I told him about Liam playing the part of Mr. P.’s son.

Nick shook his head. “I don’t know whether to laugh or tell you you’ve lost your mind.”

“The first one, definitely,” I said.

He grinned and then his expression grew serious once more. “Nobody’s giving up, Sarah. We will find out who killed Ronan Quinn.”

“I hope you’re right,” I said.

He smiled again. “I am.” He gestured at the back door. “I better go take a look at this bed.”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” I said.

He headed across the parking lot and I thought again how much he was like Charlotte. They had the same smile that reached all the way to their brown eyes.

I put the cabinet and my tools in the garage. As I came back out, Nick was heading to his SUV. “Work,” he called to me, “but we’re still on for tomorrow night. Save me a seat.”

I nodded.

I went into the shop. Charlotte was in talking to Mr. P. Mac was rewrapping the iron bed frame. “Nick got a call,” he said. “But I think he might take this.”

“Okay,” I said. “If he does and I’m not here, give him the family discount.”

“Absolutely,” he said.

“I need to do something,” I said.

“Okay, we’re good here.” He studied my face. “Do you need any help?”

“No, I’ve got this,” I said. “I won’t be very long.” I hadn’t told Rose or Michelle or Nick about those six missing wine bottles and it was past time that I did. But before I said anything, I wanted to be certain they weren’t at the house.

When I walked out to the SUV, Elvis followed me. I opened the driver’s door and he hopped onto the seat. “Oh, what the heck?” I muttered. I motioned for him to move over.

“Want to come inside with me for a moment?” I said to the cat when we pulled in to the driveway at the Hall house.

“Merow,” he answered, leaning sideways to look around me. I picked him up, pulled my keys out of my pocket. Across the street Paul Duvall and Alyssa were playing hockey on their front lawn with a large neon orange ball and plastic hockey sticks. There was a makeshift net at one end of the grass made with a tarp and wooden stakes stuck in the ground. I waved and then Elvis and I headed for the back door.

Very quickly I realized that there was no way I could search for the missing bottles by myself. There were just too many boxes to check.

Elvis followed me from the living room back to the kitchen. He immediately began prowling around the stack of boxes. “There aren’t any answers there,” I said to him. He tipped his head to one side, seemed to consider my words and then went back to what he’d been doing.

I walked over and stood in the doorway. I looked across the floor and tried to picture Ronan Quinn’s dead body, hoping somehow I’d remember something I hadn’t thought of before. But there were no answers lurking in my memory. I felt my stomach turn over as I thought about Quinn’s body. He couldn’t have been in the house more than a few minutes when he was killed; he’d still been wearing his jacket. There had been something dark on the collar that I realized now must have been dried blood. The white mark on his left pant leg had come from the whitewashed back porch, I knew now. I’d brushed the same mark off my own pants. And the bits of black asphalt that were stuck to the sole of his shoes had most likely been deposited in the driveway outside by the tires of his car when he drove over the partially paved road and then picked up on his shoes when he walked around his car to take his briefcase from the backseat.