A High-End Finish(51)
“Heck if I know,” I said, throwing both hands high. “Do you guys want some coffee?”
Lizzie shook her head. “No.”
“Talk,” Jane said, sitting down.
I told them everything that had happened from the time I parked my truck in the driveway last night until the moment this morning when I pulled open the car door and discovered Wendell.
“I know how much you hated Wendell,” Jane said. “Did you ever have his car towed?”
“No,” I said, staring at her in dismay. “And remind me not to use you as a character witness.”
“Jane,” Lizzie cried. “Shannon didn’t kill Wendell Jarvick.”
Jane waved her hands in front of her face as if to sweep her words away. “Of course not! I didn’t mean . . . Oh, never mind. You know I didn’t mean that. Everyone in town hated his guts, Shannon. Not just you. You know I’m totally on your side.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said, patting her shoulder. “I’m just a little sensitive right now.”
“I guess I am, too,” she said, dazed. “Sorry.”
“Everybody hated him,” Lizzie repeated thoughtfully, talking while pacing the length of the coffee table and back. “It’ll take the police weeks to investigate everyone who had a grudge against him.”
Jane looked at me with concern. “I hope Chief Jensen doesn’t consider you a suspect.”
“You mean just because the guy was found in my driveway with my screwdriver sticking out of his neck?”
“Oh, gross,” Lizzie said. “Ugh.”
“Sorry,” I said, remembering my own reaction to Wendell’s grisly end. “You probably shouldn’t repeat that. But hell, yeah, he considers me a suspect. Wouldn’t you?”
“Absolutely not!” Lizzie cried. She sank down into the chair. “Was it really a screwdriver? In his neck? Ick.”
“Yeah.”
We each sat silently with our own thoughts for a moment.
Jane finally spoke. “Your screwdriver? Really?”
“Yes.” I caught the look of concern my friends exchanged.
The doorbell rang.
“Saved by the bell,” I muttered, and limped over to see who was outside. I swung the door open. “Hi.”
“Hi.” Mac walked in and headed straight for the living room. “Damn, Irish. I can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?”
I couldn’t hide my smile as I shut the door and followed him in, just in time to see Lizzie’s mouth drop open. It was a rare sight and so worth waiting for.
“Lizzie and Jane,” I said politely, “this is Mac Sullivan. Mac, these are my two oldest friends. Lizzie owns Paper Moon, the book-and-paper shop on the town square, and Jane is about to open Hennessey House, a small hotel over on Apple Street.”
“How are you?” Mac said as he shook both of their hands. “Good to meet you.”
“How did you—” Jane asked.
“When did you—” Lizzie sputtered.
Mac grinned at me, and I had to admit, it felt good to have him there. He was just so . . . steady. Not to mention gorgeous in a rugged, outdoorsy kind of way. Knowing two of my closest friends were sitting there bug-eyed was pure gravy.
“Lizzie and her husband, Hal, are two of your biggest fans,” I explained. “She’s hoping you might consent to do a book signing at her store one of these days.”
“Shannon!” Lizzie hissed.
“Hey, that sounds great, Lizzie,” Mac said jovially. “I could sign some books and also get a chance to meet some of my new neighbors.”
“That would be wonderful,” Lizzie said, instantly perking up enough to dig one of her business cards out of her purse and hand it to him. “Thank you.”
I smiled at Mac. “Thank you.”
“For you, Irish, anything,” he said with a devilish grin.
Lizzie and Jane exchanged looks of stunned disbelief, which I blithely ignored. Hey, you have to take your fun where you find it.
The good times couldn’t last, though. A few minutes later, Chief Jensen knocked on the door to ask me a few questions. He said he wouldn’t mind interrogating me right here at the house, and since I considered it a small victory that he didn’t instantly drag me down to police headquarters, I agreed. Lizzie, Jane, and Mac took off after I promised to get in touch with them later that afternoon.
I poured the chief a cup of coffee and got myself a glass of water before sitting at the dining room table.
“I know it looks bad,” I said, trying to appeal to the new and improved, more agreeable Chief Jensen. “But I didn’t kill Wendell Jarvick.”
“I believe you.”
“I’m sorry?” I rubbed my ear, unsure if I’d heard him right. “What did you say?”
“I believe you,” he said again, then added, “I know you didn’t kill Jarvick and I know you didn’t kill Jerry Saxton, either.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. Your alibi for the time of Saxton’s death is unshakable, according to the coroner’s final report.” He lifted his shoulders in a casual shrug. “Alibi aside, my instinct tells me you’re trustworthy enough.”
I pressed my lips together, feeling immensely relieved. I hadn’t realized until then how worried I’d been that he would never really believe I was innocent. “Thank you.”