Midnight Crossroad (Page 70)

“In this letter, Shawn Lovell tells me that he just discovered his son killed Aubrey Hamilton Lowry. He tells me that Connor had a terrible back history of mental problems. He asks me not to blame them for leaving after Connor ran away.”

“What?” Manfred said, startled. Whatever he’d expected, that wasn’t it. “He ran away?” Manfred said weakly. “Wow, that’s unexpected.”

Smith raised his thick blond eyebrows. “He says he doesn’t want his daughter to be tainted by the fallout from the crime and that Connor’s confession shocked them as much as anyone else. Shawn enclosed a note from the boy. Connor says he’s sorry for everything he’s done. He says he’s leaving because he couldn’t stand being around people who cared for Aubrey.”

In Manfred’s opinion, this was a mighty fine letter for having been written from beyond the grave. “And do you believe Connor wrote that letter?” It was clear to Manfred that he was not putting an idea into Smith’s head that wasn’t already there.

“Handwriting experts are comparing it to the boy’s signature, but so much schoolwork is done on computers now.” Smith shrugged. “Since we’ve got a confession that fits all the known facts and I found the boy’s killed before . . . I called a detective in the force where they used to live, and he remembered the case very well.”

“Are you going to look for him? Or for them?” Manfred asked. He made sure his face was composed.

“The answer would have to be, yes, we are going to look for Connor real hard. He’ll always be a threat to others unless he has a lot of serious therapy, and probably even afterward. For Shawn and Creek Lovell? Realistically, they’re not going to be our priority. We’ve got actual bad guys to catch.”

The sheriff rose to take his leave. “I guess I won’t be coming back to Midnight as often,” he said. “I had never had to drive out here before Aubrey went missing.”

“I hope you won’t ever have to again.”

“If you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t look too good.”

Manfred was certainly willing to believe that. “Yeah, I didn’t sleep well last night. Nightmares.”

“Every last person I’ve talked to here today has said the same damn thing,” Smith said. “You seem to be having some kind of epidemic.”

“Maybe because it’s the beginning of winter,” Manfred said absently, letting his gaze flicker over to the screen that waited for him. SandyStar521 was waiting to find out what her future held in store.

“I’ll let you get back to work,” said Smith, taking the hint. He moved, a little stiffly, toward the door. He seemed to be feeling the onset of winter himself. “You got a visitor.” Smiling, the sheriff nodded toward the front window. Mr. Snuggly was looking in, precariously balanced on the narrow sill.

“Let’s see,” said Manfred. “Maybe he wants to talk to you.”

The sheriff looked at him oddly, and Manfred realized there hadn’t been any touch of levity in his own tone. When Smith opened the door, Mr. Snuggly leaped down from the sill and arranged himself in front of the sheriff: looking up with his great golden eyes, tail wrapped neatly around his paws.

“What do you need, cat?” Smith asked, smiling.

Manfred held his breath. But his hope was dashed when Mr. Snuggly did not answer Smith out loud. That would have been pretty amusing, and Manfred needed to see something amusing.

Instead of speaking, Mr. Snuggly turned to start back to Fiji’s house. He looked over his shoulder to make sure Smith was following, and when Smith did not, the cat stopped to look back. Manfred didn’t know if the invitation included him, so he waited until Mr. Snuggly gave a tiny jerk of his head, a gesture that seemed to include him as well as the sheriff.

As they walked up to Fiji’s front porch, Manfred was sorry to see that the formerly abundant flowers were all but gone. Instead, there were pumpkins set out on either side of the door, carved into grotesque faces with considerable skill. Fiji had put out a sign reading, PUMPKIN CARVING WORKSHOPS! $25 INCLUDING PUMPKIN AND CARVING KNIFE!

She was working off her unhappiness.

When they entered the shop, Fiji had moved the two armchairs and the wicker table into the back of the house somewhere. She’d set up four card tables with folding chairs, covered the tables with orange plastic table coverings, and put cloth aprons and the pumpkin carving knives at four spots on each table. Since the glass case had been broken and not replaced, there was just enough room.

“I’ve got fifteen minutes before my class comes,” she said. “Else I’d ask you to sit and have a cup of tea or some soda.”

“That’s all right, I need to get back to Davy,” Smith said. “Ms. Fiji, I’ve got a few things to tell you.” He explained the content of the letters to her, much as he’d done for Manfred.

“Manfred, I’m sorry,” was the first thing she said.

Manfred shrugged. “They had to do it.”

“Why sorry for Manfred?” Smith asked.

“He was a friend of Shawn’s,” she said, without missing a beat.

“We both liked to fish,” Manfred said off the top of his head.

“Really?” Clearly, Smith did not think it likely from Manfred’s appearance that he’d ever been in a boat, much less put a worm on a hook.

“Sure, me and my grandmother went fishing all the time,” Manfred said truthfully. “She loved to be out on the water. Said it helped her clear her head. Of course, we ate the fish, too. Didn’t have a lot of money. What do you do for fun, Sheriff?” he asked, from sheer curiosity.

“As a kid, I liked to fish, too,” he said. “After I got into law enforcement, time for that got scarce. But I got interested in cold cases, and I belonged to a club that met once a month to talk about famous cases from the past. That was kind of relaxing. Now I work jigsaw puzzles.” He paused for a moment and returned to being the guarded, serious sheriff. “Ms. Fiji, is there anything you want to say to me about the Egglestons?”

Fiji opened her eyes wide. “I can’t think of a thing I want to say about them. Why?”

“I’m still curious about them all catching cold simultaneously. And they mentioned your name.”

“Mentioned me? That’s strange. I don’t think I’ve ever met the older Mr. Eggleston or his wife. I did see Price riding his motorcycle at poor Aubrey’s funeral. At least, I guess that was him.”