Beth Andrews - In This Town

“You went to school together, you and Griffin York.”

“We did. Although we hardly ran around with the same crowd. I was half of Mystic Point High’s hottest couple and he was the ultimate bad boy, hauling around that chip on his shoulder, a perpetual smirk on his face.”

“You don’t like him,” Bertrand said.

Truth or lie? She had no problem with lies but sensed it wouldn’t hurt to tell the truth in this instance. “Those are some seriously well-honed investigating skills, Detective.”

“The police report also indicated that Griffin started the fight.”

She may not like Griffin, wasn’t sure she trusted him, but Nora did. Nora loved him. “Dale instigated it.”

“How?”

“He got grabby with Nora.” An exaggeration, one Tori didn’t regret. As far as she was concerned, Griffin had every reason and every right to have laid into Dale that night. “Griffin punched him. They fought. Layne broke it up—”

“By using her Taser on Dale.”

“He charged at her,” Tori said, straightening. Bertrand was trying to turn things around, make it seem as if Layne had used unnecessary force because they all hated Dale. “She was defending herself and trying to get the situation under control. Besides, it wasn’t like she shot him.”

“This morning at Chief Taylor’s office, you said you were glad Dale York was dead.”

She narrowed her eyes. Wasn’t he clever, trying to trip her up with his lightning-fast questions? “Actually you asked if I was happy Dale was dead. I didn’t answer. But I will now. Yes. I’m glad he’s dead.”

“Mrs. Mott, where were you the night Dale York died?”

“You think I killed Dale?” she asked, wondering if she’d made a mistake, a big one, in agreeing to speak with Bertrand here, now, on her own.

“I think you hated him,” Bertrand said, watching her carefully. “That you were angry there wasn’t enough evidence to charge him with your mother’s murder.”

“Right on both counts. But I didn’t kill him.”

“Your whereabouts that night?” he asked again.

“I was at the country club with the rest of my family. It was my cousin’s engagement party.”

He jotted that in his damn notebook. She wanted to snatch it up, take it into the kitchen and burn it on the stove.

“What time did you leave the party?”

“Midnight? Maybe a little later.” She tossed the empty bottle aside. It rolled across the table, stopping at the salt and pepper shaker holder. “Look, it was late and—”

“Were you drinking that night?”

“I had a few glasses of wine.” Had needed them considering her ex, Greg, had been there with his new girlfriend. Colleen Gibbs taught at the same school as Tori’s cousin Erin so Tori had spent a tense evening watching them cozy up to each other. Even though Tori knew she’d made the right decision asking Greg for a divorce, seeing him with her, seeing how happy he was with another woman—when she’d failed so miserably at being his wife—hurt.

“Were your sisters there?”

“My sisters, my father and Celeste—”

“Celeste Vitello, your father’s girlfriend and owner of this establishment?”

Nerves tumbled in Tori’s stomach. She hadn’t been far off the mark with her smartass comment about his investigation skills. He was good, better than she’d expected.

Lesson learned.

“Yes,” she ground out, hating that he’d pushed her into being unable to muster up any pretense of indifference. “Ross was there, too, as was Griffin—for an hour or so—not to mention my uncle and his family and around two hundred of my cousin and her fiancé’s closest friends.”

“Where did you go when you left the party?”

“Home.”

“Alone?”

Now she smiled, slow and easy. “I had several men offer me their…company…but yes, I was alone.”

Bertrand looked at her as if he didn’t believe her. “Your son didn’t go home with you?”

Her son. He knew about Brandon. She snorted silently. Of course he did. He probably knew what color panties she had on, what she liked to eat for breakfast and how much money she made in tips last year.

“Brandon went home with his father.” He preferred being at his father’s house. Preferred being with Greg and Colleen over Tori.

She was surprised Bertrand didn’t know that as well.

“So no one can verify your whereabouts during the hours of midnight until Dale York’s body was found at approximately 6:00 a.m.?”

“Nope.”

He leaned forward. “Mrs. Mott, did you kill Dale York?”

She mimicked his stance and tone. “No, Detective Bertrand, I did not. Although as far as I’m concerned, whoever did kill him did the world a favor.”

“There’s no proof Dale York killed your mother,” he said, all emotionally closed off and professional. “What if he was innocent?”

“Just because there’s no proof doesn’t mean he wasn’t guilty. I would’ve thought they’d have taught you that at the police academy.” She slid to her feet, reached back for the water bottle.

“What are you doing?” he asked, looking completely confused and irritated.

“This is called leaving. It’s what happens when I get tired of a conversation or am bored. I’m both. And since you’ve asked me all your very important questions, I see no reason for us to have our official meeting Friday afternoon. But before we both go our separate ways, there is one thing I want to say.”

“I can hardly wait,” he muttered.

“This thing with Layne, it’s a load of crap. She doesn’t break the rules…she makes sure the rules are maintained. And Ross? He’s as by-the-book as they come.”

“He’s sleeping with a subordinate officer. Wait,” he said, holding up a hand, “don’t tell me. They’re in love and love trumps everything else, even rules, regulations and law and order?”

“I have no idea if they’re in love or in lust or just scratching an itch until something or someone else comes along. All I know is that they’re two unattached adults and neither one would let their personal relationship interfere with their jobs. And they sure as hell wouldn’t create some sort of grand conspiracy.”

“I guess that’ll be determined. I’ll determine it.”

“You’re an arrogant one, aren’t you?” she asked softly. “Confident. As if your badge gives you the right to look down on the rest of us mere mortals. I thought a good cop waited until he had all the facts before deciding whether someone was guilty, but you…you’ve already judged us. And found us guilty.”

He held her gaze, not the least bit cowed by her sharp words, her acerbic tone. “I’m trying to get to the truth.”

“I hope you find it because it’s going to prove that neither my sister nor Ross have done anything illegal or unethical. It’s also going to show that no one in my family killed Dale York.”

She walked away. And prayed that she was right. Because if Bertrand discovered something, anything, that could be used against her sister or any member of her family, they were screwed.

* * *

LATE FRIDAY AFTERNOON, Anthony Sullivan pulled a coffee cup from the dispenser. Ever since his freshman year at Boston University, he stopped at this same store whenever he got back into town. Some habits were hard to break.

The bell on the door rang and he glanced over—and wished he’d attended a twelve-step program for lovers of bad convenience store coffee.

It was her. Jessica Taylor. He knew he should look away, but his eyes locked on her. She held the door, said something to the short redhead who waitressed with her at the café. Then she laughed, the sound seeming to float across the store to wrap around him. Torture him.