I found myself on Thursday morning waiting for Mac in a coffee shop. I couldn’t believe how much had changed in just three days. I picked apart my scone and slowly sipped my coffee. The Daily Grind, owned by Alex’s partner, Josh, had the best coffee in town and the best scones in my known universe. It was small, with a half dozen tables in dark wood to match the counter, and two highly coveted couches. The room held the blended aroma of fresh-brewed coffee, cinnamon, and sugar. Mac was almost never late. I checked my watch, sighed, smiled at Josh. I had asked him once if I could live there—just use a sleeping bag in the back office—but he’d started in on health codes and whatnot. The only reason I had procured a table was because it wasn’t a weekend. The locals avoided the coffee shop on Saturday and Sunday as it became a take-out-only type of place by necessity, with a line snaking out the door and spilling into the street.
Finally, I saw Mac round the corner down the street. I tidied the area to make it seem like I had just sat down, and looked at Josh with one finger to my lips. He shook his head and shrugged.
“Hey, sorry I’m late. I got held up at the station and couldn’t get away,” Mac said as he limped into the café.
“No problem. I just got here myself.” I waved off his apology. I heard a distinct snort from behind the counter but didn’t risk sending a glare that way.
Mac left his cane at the table and went to the counter to order. When he’d settled with his food, he smiled and rubbed his hands together. Mac loved coffee and, apparently, scones.
“I wouldn’t have guessed you were a scone kind of guy.”
“I’m not, but the ones they have here are in another category.” He proceeded to add four packs of sugar and cream to his coffee.
“Well, I’m glad you had time to meet me today.” I looked away from what he was doing to his drink.
“I’m always happy to see you, Clyde, particularly now that you aren’t part of an active investigation.” He bit into his scone and tried to smile around it.
“That’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about.” I broke off another piece of cranberry scone but didn’t eat it.
Mac’s smile vanished.
“You want to talk about Sara’s murder?”
“Well, yes. What did you think I wanted to talk about?”
“I . . . wasn’t sure, but I didn’t think it would be about a case that was closed.” Mac sat up straight and began clearing his half-eaten pastry away, brushing the crumbs into a napkin. Now that things were all business, I supposed he didn’t want to be distracted. “What do you have to say?”
I steeled myself and thought of my promise to my mother. “I don’t think Gary did it.” I thought this was better than saying the pendulum didn’t think Gary did it.
Mac held up his hand like a stop sign.
“I know how you feel about this, Clyde. But you don’t have all the facts. How would you feel if someone was poking around in one of your investigations?”
“I’m not poking around. Did you know that Tish put Alison up to changing her story about Gary’s alibi?”
Mac grew still. “No, I didn’t know that.” His eyes were hard to read, and he wouldn’t meet my gaze. “Do you think Alison is lying?”
“No, I think she’s telling the truth now.” I could hear my voice going up an octave but was powerless to stop the whine that was creeping in. “But it concerns me that Tish got her to change her statement by claiming it’s what Sara wanted.”
“She told us she’d had a change of heart. In either case, her father doesn’t have an alibi, and he lied about it in the first place. It makes him look pretty good for the murder. Most homicides—”
“—are committed by someone close to the victim. I know.” I tried not to sound completely frustrated. “Are you even considering other suspects at this point?”
“I really can’t talk about this with you. You’re a witness. You could be called to testify.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. I knew from long experience that he was wrapping this up, and I’d better make my case quickly.
I swallowed, and then dove in. “Have you heard about Sara’s last . . . séance?”
I didn’t quite flinch, but I was mentally preparing for the onslaught of either laughter or lecture. Mac was the world’s biggest nonbeliever—even the mention of psychics or spirits usually caused him to turn an unattractive shade of purple. His mother had been widowed young and had spent the rest of her life and much of her income on mediums in an attempt to contact Mac’s father. It was an ongoing argument between them. He did not have an open mind on the subject. But I thought the accusation of murder, whether from a spirit or not, could have put Sara in danger and Mac needed to know about it.