Death in the Sunshine (Retired Detectives Club, #1)(81)

Moira looks baffled. Like she’s trying to work it all out. ‘I don’t understand why he didn’t tell you. Maybe he was in denial. It must have been—’

A series of beeps from near the cooker stops Moira mid-sentence. They both look over towards the noise. The mobile phone Moira dug up from the trail is vibrating against the countertop. The screen lit up.

Lizzie wants to hear what Moira was going to say, but she can’t ignore the phone. If it’s working again this could be important to the case.

She hurries to the phone and reads what’s on the screen. Feels the nausea recede as adrenaline floods her body. Turning back to Moira she signals for her to come over. Her voice is urgent. ‘Quick, you have to see this.’





45


RICK


Rick glances across at Philip. He’s sitting in the passenger seat of the jeep, hands on his lap, staring straight ahead and not talking. That’s odd. Philip likes to talk. He’s always jawing on about what they should do and say, not that Rick listens to half of it, but still, it’s all kinds of strange that he’s quiet on the ride out to Clint’s place.

‘You want some music?’ Rick asks, gesturing towards the radio.

Philip shrugs. Says nothing.

Rick puts the radio on anyways. Wants something to break the silence. An old tune, ‘Two Princes’, from back in the day comes on. Rick starts to hum along.

Philip tuts loudly. Rick glances over at him. Philip doesn’t look at him but there’s a muscle pulsing in his jaw and the man’s fists are clenched so tight that his knuckles are turning white.

Rick stops humming, but leaves the radio on. Something’s up with Philip, for sure. The guy’s got a short fuse – they’ve all seen that over the past couple of days – but how he’s looking today is different; like he’s stressed but also deflated. And the atmosphere back at the house, with Philip and Lizzie, that was kind of weird.

Eager to get the journey over with, Rick steps on the gas a little harder and wonders what the hell is going on.

Clint Weston lives on Still Water Boulevard in a two-storey two-bed with mustard-coloured stucco and a wraparound porch and double garage. There are no cars on the driveway, so Rick pulls the jeep off the street and parks up in front of the garage doors. He glances over at Philip. ‘Here we go.’

‘Okay,’ says Philip, unbuckling his seat belt.

Rick raises an eyebrow but supposes one word is better than none. Climbing out of the jeep they walk around the front. Rick raps on the door, then takes a step back and waits.

‘You think there’s a reason Clint didn’t give you his log yet?’ asks Philip.

Rick turns towards him. Shakes his head. ‘Nope. I just figured he’d not had time is all.’

Philip frowns. Says nothing.

‘You think different?’ says Rick.

Philip opens his mouth to answer, but stops. There’s a click as the lock is disengaged. A moment later the front door opens.

Clint’s wife, Janice, stands in the doorway. ‘Rick. Philip. It’s nice to see you. Can I help you boys somehow?’

‘Hey, Janice,’ says Rick, smiling. ‘Is Clint around?’

‘Sure, he’s in his workshop out back, just like usual.’ Janice pulls the door open wider and beckons them inside. ‘Come on through.’

Janice leads them through the house and out through sliding doors to the backyard. Across the stretch of neatly kept lawn there’s a large wooden shed. ‘He’s in there. Things are real busy at the moment – we’ve got so many orders he can hardly keep up with them.’

Thanking Janice, Rick heads across the yard to the shed.

Philip follows. ‘Do you know what Clint makes in there?’

‘Nope,’ says Rick. ‘He’s never told me.’

‘Me neither,’ says Philip. His irritation is clear in his voice.

Rick sighs inwardly. Philip is such a control freak, and nosey with it. There’s no reason Clint should have told any of them about his hobby, and to be pissed with the man for not telling him seems real out of shape to Rick. He hopes Philip doesn’t let that set the tone for their chat. He knows the man can let his emotions get the better of him – just like he’d done at Betty Graften’s house. When you’re talking to folks – suspects or witnesses – it’s better to be even-tempered, and keep a poker face fixed in place to mask whatever you’re feeling. You get more from them that way. No one responds well to judgement.

As he stops outside the workshop and knocks on the painted green door, Rick turns back to Philip. ‘Well, I guess we’re about to find out.’

‘Yeah?’ On the other side of the door, Clint’s voice sounds a little muffled. ‘It’s open.’

Rick pushes the door ajar and steps over the threshold. He stops a couple of feet inside, taking in the sight. He’s sure never seen a thing like it. Inside, the shed looks like Santa’s grotto on the night before Christmas. In the half of the shed closest to him there’s shelving and cabinets housing hundreds of figurines and carvings – reindeer, turtle doves, three kings, shepherds, nativity figures, Santas, family scenes, snow-covered houses, angels and more.

On the countertop closest to Rick, fifty snowmen of various heights are lined up beside a large cardboard packing box. Painted white and coated in silver glitter, each snowman has little stick arms, big eyes, a tiny carrot nose and a smile that stretches almost the whole way from one side of its face to the other. Rick lets out a long whistle. ‘That’s a whole lot of snowmen.’