To Love and to Perish

FIFTEEN


SATURDAY MORNING WAS A slow day at work, especially since we hadn’t been in the shop for the last two days to answer calls and set up any appointments. Cory and I sat in the Austin Healey around ten thirty, pretending to drive the hills of Monaco with the sun—the overhead showroom pin light—on our faces. We did that sometimes. It felt peaceful, a little mini mind vacation. Of course I had the cordless in my lap and spent part my vacation time willing a customer to call in need of a pre-owned but pristine Austin Healey.

And part of the time I processed our trip to Albany.

Elizabeth Potter hadn’t said she didn’t know what Brennan and Wayne Engle fought about. She said she couldn’t tell. Why not? We thought they’d argued about Brennan’s homosexuality, which wasn’t a secret now, by any means. She could have told me that. So Cory’s theory had to be incorrect. We’d agreed on that during our drive back to Wachobe last night. We just hadn’t agreed on a new theory regarding the argument.

She had also said to ask Brennan about the crash. But Brennan supposedly had no memory of that night. Was he lying to protect himself? If so, what would get him to tell the truth now?

Cory and I also hadn’t agreed on approaching Brennan to ask him. Cory feared it would lead to him having to admit he’d gone through Brennan’s stuff, a sure-fire way to not only make Brennan clam up more but also to terminate their relationship forever. I thought it might be time to confess we’d at least asked a few questions in Albany, based on the disturbing news reports, in the hopes Brennan would be more forthcoming with information once he realized how much Cory cared.

Cory didn’t want to bank on that. This whole situation had shaken his confidence.

Hence, our little mini mind vacation.

I focused on relaxing. Breathe in, breathe out. Visualize. Was that the royal family waving to us?

Sirens interrupted our peaceful drive through the hills.

We watched as Ray’s patrol car flew past the showroom window. The volunteer ambulance roared past a few minutes later, followed closely by county rescue.

It was the standard response team for a boating incident. A little unusual for this late in the year though. I wondered who was out on the lake.

Cory glanced at me. “Didn’t you say your sister was going canoeing this morning?”

“They would hug the shoreline. I’m sure she’s fine.” Almost sure. I considered calling her cell phone. If she was fine and my call intruded on Maury’s serenade, would she be happy or mad? Worse, would the canoe tip over as she fumbled for her cell? I convinced myself the brouhaha had nothing to do with her.

I settled back in my seat and tried to recapture Monaco.

Ten minutes later, Cory hit my shoulder and pointed as the medical examiner’s vehicle f lew past our window.

“You don’t think—” I picked the cordless up off my lap.

It rang as if on cue. Cory and I exchanged fearful glances.

“Darlin’, I need you to get over here and throw a net over your sister.”

Relief washed through my veins. Erica must be safe, safe enough to be causing trouble. I covered the mouthpiece and asked at Cory. “Do I look like a butterfly keeper to you?”

Cory’s eyebrows flew up. He wisely chose to shake his head.

“Thank you.” I uncovered the mouthpiece. “Why, Ray, what’s going on? Are Erica and Maury okay?”

“They’re fine.” Ray’s emphasis on the word “they’re” made me nervous. Who else could be involved?

“I’ll let your sister explain. Hold on.”

Before the cell phone exchanged hands, I heard Erica in the background, talking about hippopotamuses.

“You and your great ideas. Go canoeing. You’ll be fine. I’m not fine, Jolene.”

I didn’t bother to point out canoeing wasn’t my idea. I did get a mental picture of her bedraggled and soaked to the skin, wrapped in a Red Cross blanket. “You fell in, didn’t you?”

“Only after I spotted the body and dropped my paddle. I couldn’t reach it. It’s not my fault I have short arms. Mom said she had short arms, too. It’s not my fault the canoe tipped over when I lunged for my paddle. I told you canoes are tippy, but you wouldn’t listen. I told you I didn’t want to go canoeing. I told Maury I didn’t want to go. No one ever listens to me, except Mom.”

Only my sister would gloss over a body. “I’m definitely listening now, Erica. What body are you talking about?”

“The dead guy floating facedown in the lake. Actually, he was rolling with the waves on the shoreline, with a big gash in his forehead. Now he’s on shore, like a beached whale. Poor guy, I think it’s going to be a closed casket funeral.”

I cringed. “Who is he?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before. He looks like a politician. Blue suit, white shirt, maroon striped tie. He’s wearing black shoes, wingtips.”

That oh-so-familiar sick feeling washed through me. “Where did you find him?”

“He was lodged under a low-lying branch a few yards north of Brennan’s place. We were paddling down to say hello to Brennan. You know, to cheer him up.” Her voice lowered. “Actually, I was hoping he’d invite us out on his speedboat. This paddling stuff is for the birds.

“Hey, here comes Brennan now.”

“Ah, Erica, could you keep Brennan away from the body?” I didn’t want him to remember his old friend after being pulled from the water.

“The sheriff’s deputies won’t let anyone over there. Brennan’s right here. You want to talk to him?”

“Not right now. Where’s Ray?”

“He’s coming this way, too. He doesn’t look happy …

“Hey, what’s he doing? Oh my god, he’s pulling out his handcuffs …

“He’s putting them on Brennan. He’s reading him his rights …

“Suspected murder? Brennan?

“Jolene, who the hell is Wayne Engle?”