Stranger in the Lake(35)
“Come on. As long as I’m here, you might as well make me a cup of Paul’s fancy-ass coffee.”
We step inside, where Chet is still barefoot, but he’s scrounged up some jeans, thank God, and a Falcons T-shirt that’s seen better days. On the stovetop behind him, pans sizzle on all five burners—bacon and batter sprinkled with fresh blueberries.
“Hey, Sheriff. Want some pancakes?”
“Nah, just a double espresso, extra strong. Thanks.”
Chet’s not just making pancakes; he’s working the opposite side of the island like a short-order cook, moving between the espresso machine and the stove, sliding there just in time to tease the batter loose from the pan or flip the bacon with lightning-quick twists of a hand. While the second side darkens to toasty brown, he slips a cup under the coffee nozzle and works the knobs. This chef thing might not be such a bad idea after all.
The doorbell rings as I’m digging a coffee cup from the cabinet, and I peek around the corner. Sam stands on the other side of the glass in his uniform parka over heavy snow boots, staring off to the left of the house. To that awful word, faded to pink in the fallen snow.
I open the door, and he looks at me with bloodshot eyes, dark circles against a bright white background. A shadow of stubble decorates his chin. He points a long finger at the snow graffiti. “It wasn’t me. I just want to lay that out there first thing, that I had nothing to do with it.”
I roll my eyes, lean a shoulder against the doorjamb. “Maybe not, but I bet you wanted to.”
“Hell yeah, I wanted to. I’d take out an ad in the newspaper and write it with smoke in the sky if I thought it would do any good.” He puffs a humorless laugh, unable to stop himself. “But you’ve made it pretty clear you’re more interested in this big, fancy house filled with designer clothes and that diamond as big as your knuckle than you are in the truth.”
His words land on me like a bucket of icy water, and I shove my left hand in my pocket. “Paul cries at sad movies, you asshole. He chops firewood for grumpy old Mr. Guthrie, and he gives bonuses to his staff every Christmas, even the ones who don’t do much of anything, and he loved her. He loved Katherine.”
“In the wrong hands, love can be just as deadly as a loaded gun, Charlie. All you gotta do is take off the blinders.”
I gesture to the eastern side of the house, step back to close the door. “Opossum’s around back, at the top of the stairs.”
Sam stops the door with a toe. “Is Chet here? I need a word.”
“What for?”
“For a word.” His gaze flicks beyond me, to deeper into the house. “I also have a couple of follow-up questions for you and Mr. Keller.”
I stand there for a long moment, trying to decide what to do. I could call Chet to the door, have Sam fire off whatever questions he has from right where he’s standing, on my doorstep in the freezing cold. But I also heard the bit about the follow-up questions and it occurs to me that Chet banging around the kitchen might be a good kind of distraction, and same goes for Micah. With those two in the room, Sam will at least keep things civil.
“Take off your shoes.” I turn away, leaving Sam to deal with his own coat. I don’t want to see his face when he clocks the house’s most impressive features—the steel-and-wood staircase that hangs like magic from the wall, the glass-front refrigerator and stainless-steel appliances, the twin couches on a massive wool rug thick as a cloud. Don’t want to know if his expression looks anything like mine did when I first saw the place, an equal mix of envy and awe.
In the kitchen, I busy myself with the gathering of plates and silverware, digging napkins out of the drawer while Sam doles out greetings to the other men. Chet points him to a counter stool with a greasy spatula. “Hungry man’s breakfast, coming up.”
“I just ate,” Sam says, but everybody knows Sam has the kind of metabolism that gets him banned from the all-you-can-eat buffet. Doesn’t matter how long ago he ate; he can always eat again. “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
Chet’s back is turned, flipping a row of bacon on the frying pan, and it takes him a couple of seconds before he realizes Sam’s talking to him. “Who, me? Sure, man. Shoot.”
Sam shifts his feet, stabbing a thumb over his shoulder. “We can do this in the other room if you prefer.”
Chet points to the stove. “I’ve kind of got my hands full. Ask away.”
I set everything on the counter with a hard clatter, glaring at Sam as he flips through a notepad to a page filled with his tiny scribbles. He sinks onto the counter stool next to Micah. “Want to tell me what you were doing at the Crosby Shores B and B Monday night?”
Chet shrugs, sliding a steaming pancake onto the pile on a platter. “Playing darts and drinking half-priced beer, like pretty much everybody else in town. The place was jammed.”
“Did you talk to anybody?”
“Dude. I talked to everybody. They were short-staffed and folks were starting to get rowdy, so I gave Piper a hand behind the bar. She paid me in booze. Is that what this is about? Because I didn’t drive home. Piper told me I could sleep on the cot in the back.”
Sam digs his cell phone from his pocket, pulls up a picture. “According to multiple witnesses that night, you spent quite a bit of time talking to this woman.” He slaps his phone to the marble, faceup. I take in the blond hair, the light blue eyes on a pretty face, and my heart clangs to a stop.