A High-End Finish(74)

“Thanks,” I said, although I hated that my eyes were still so sensitive to the light.

“You’re welcome. What else can I do?”

“I’m sorry I’m so miserable,” I said. “I should feel better tomorrow.”

“You will. I guarantee it, because if you’re feeling better, I’ll make you chocolate-cheesecake crepes from a new recipe I found.”

“I love you the best,” I said. “And it has nothing to do with your fantastic cooking skills.”

She smiled. “I’m staying tonight and tomorrow morning, and then I’ve got to go home to get ready for that conference I’m going to. So Lizzie will be coming by to stay with you.”

“Wait,” I said, struggling to sit up straighter. “I would love to have her here, but it really isn’t necessary. Dad plans to be here for as long as I need him.”

She just gazed at me. “Your father is a wonderful man, Shannon, but . . .”

My shoulders slumped. “You’re right. I can wrap him around my finger and get him to do whatever I want.”

“Exactly. Lizzie won’t put up with your crap for one minute.”

“Remind me again why I’m friends with you people.”

“Because we love you.” She patted my shoulder lightly and walked back to the kitchen.

As soon as she left the room, my mind drifted back to trying to solve the mystery of the person who had assaulted me. More and more, I was wondering if Jennifer Bailey could be that person. That would mean, of course, that she had also killed Jerry Saxton and Wendell Jarvick. I knew she was capable of horrible acts, so I wouldn’t put it past her. But one question remained: Why? Did she really hate me enough to try to implicate me in the murder of Jerry and Wendell? And then once she’d killed them, why did she decide to come after me, too? Had I made her so angry when I told Whitney that I saw her hugging Penny?

Ridiculous. So I had to go back to the question, Why?

And if not Jennifer, then who?

I finally pulled a lined notepad and pen out from the drawer in the side table. I forced myself to go step by step through each attack and incident from the very beginning. My penmanship wasn’t the best because I couldn’t always focus on the words I was writing.

I had gone out with Jerry on a Thursday night three weeks ago. We had a nice dinner and then went walking on the beach. He attacked me, ripped my clothes, and I kicked him in the general vicinity of his family jewels to make him stop.

An audience had gathered on the pier to watch the action. Had Jennifer been part of the crowd? Or, worse, had Jennifer been dating him secretly?

The only person I could ask was Whitney, but would she tell me? Of course not. I supposed I could ask Tommy to ask her, or even Eric, but would the chief yell at me again for running my own little side investigation?

I was hoping we might be past all that, but he seemed to be a stickler for keeping nosy people away from police business. But, really, how could he blame me for trying to figure out who had bopped me over the head?

Turning back to my step-by-step process, I wrote down that according to the coroner’s report, Jerry was killed sometime Friday night, the night after our date. I didn’t find his body until late Sunday afternoon at the Boyers’ house.

Stan Boyer’s neighbor Daphne had been walking her dog by their house, and when the dog began to bark she went to investigate and heard water running. She had called Stan to let him know. And then she left for Europe.

The following day, Monday, was when Wendell Jarvick arrived in town. I tangled with him almost instantly, first over whether I would carry his suitcases upstairs and then, a while later, I told him to move his car out of my driveway and he refused. My two neighbors had overheard my argument, but was there someone else in the vicinity who heard it, too?

Around that time, my closest friends and I decided to find out what had really happened, mainly to draw suspicion away from me. They began to talk to people around town, asking questions, gathering information. Did one of them spark someone’s indignation? Did someone object to my friends asking too many questions?

The next night, I was in the pub with Jane and Emily and saw Wendell attack Whitney with the ketchup. Joyce and Stan had been there that night, too, and Penny and her friends. Eric and Tommy were there, and Jennifer, as well. She might’ve gone after Wendell in retribution for humiliating her best friend.

The following Sunday, my truck battery died. I had never considered it a part of the bigger picture, but now I had to wonder if the dead battery was another “coincidence” connected to my other so-called accidents.

That same afternoon, I’d had a late lunch by myself at the Cozy Cove Diner and witnessed Wendell treating Cindy the waitress very badly. I could still hear that coffee mug shattering against the wall and wondered how traumatized Cindy was. She might have been angry enough to kill Wendell in that moment. But, then, what did she have against Jerry? Or me?

I almost crossed Cindy’s name off my list. I felt ridiculous for suspecting her and had no doubt that she was completely innocent in all of this.

I tried to remember who else was eating in the diner that afternoon when Wendell pulled his juvenile stunt. I visualized the booths; saw Penny and her bank friends in one, Stan and Joyce Boyer huddled together at another against the back wall.

There were plenty of other townspeople dining there, too, because of the Sunday prime-rib special. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that Wendell had had run-ins with every single one of those people. I wished I could recall who else was sitting at the front counter, but all I had seen were their backs.