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  “I’d say he’s the prime suspect.”

  Delyth turned onto the paved road. “Okay. Who else?”

  “The young man dating Ajnabee’s ex-girlfriend. Could be jealousy. And Ben has a lot of anger inside. Something could have triggered his lashing out at a convenient target. Maybe he thought he was defending his father’s honor.”

  As she turned onto the main road, Delyth asked, “How about Howard and his roommate? They seemed nice enough, but Howard did admit he didn’t care for Ajnabee. Maybe his dislike was stronger than he let on.”

  “A possibility, but I’d suspect him more if it was Karen who got shot.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “You can’t unsay it now.”

  “It’s just gossip.”

  “That didn’t stop you this morning from spilling the beans about the grandfather.”

  “That’s different. Ethan Bailey is a town institution and long gone. His story is fair game.”

  “You know I won’t stop pestering you until you tell me. It’s the first thing they teach in journalism school.”

  “Okay.” Helen took a moment to decide how much she wanted to share. At last she said, “When his daughter, Cindy, was in my class, Howard met a man who became his lover. His wife wasn’t particularly understanding when he told her.”

  “I bet not!”

  “They divorced, of course, and she got full custody of Cindy. Years later, though, when his wife was diagnosed with breast cancer, he came back to take care of her. When she died, he stayed on for Cindy.”

  “That’s a good thing, right? What does Karen have to do with it?”

  “It was Ethan Bailey—you remember, he’s Karen Dudda’s grandfather who became a pastor—anyway, Ethan was the one who originally told the wife that Howard wasn’t fit to be a father, and because of it she shouldn’t let Cindy have anything to do with him. But then, when she got sick, Bailey had the gall to call and tell Howard it was his Christian duty to move back and take care of her.”

  Delyth turned to stare at Helen. “I’m well aware of that kind of self-righteous—” The tires rumbled over the Botts’ dots that separated the lanes.

  Helen grabbed the handle above her door. “Watch the road, dear.”

  Delyth steered back into her lane. “Anyway, do you think he’d blame the granddaughter after all this time?”

  “Not really. It just seems like one of those creepy family secrets that are revealed as the motive in so many English murder mysteries. You know, the kind of thing some old biddy tells the detective when the book is two-thirds done.”

  “Don’t you be calling yourself an old biddy.” Helen smiled, more at the way Delyth said it than the joke itself. Delyth went on. “Still, it can’t be a coincidence that he’s living right next door to Bailey’s granddaughter.”

  “I think it is, in a way. The property belonged to his ex-wife’s parents. They must have left it to his daughter and she’s letting him live there now.”

  “Nonetheless, it’s pretty weird.”

  “Perhaps, but I can’t see what it has to do with Ajnabee’s murder. We should stick with likely suspects. Starting with Shawn’s girlfriend. And I wonder what the man who lives in the big house makes of all this. Foley, wasn’t it?”

  “I, for one, am done,” Delyth said. “I don’t have time to root around in a mystery. Not on my day-off.”

  “But you have to admit the feud between Dudda and Ajnabee is suspicious.”

  “Yes, and I hope Josh, or whoever is in charge, follows up on it.”

  “If they know about it.”

  “The neighbors seem pretty eager to bring it up.”

  “Maybe not with the police. That’s all the more reason why we have to do it.” When Delyth didn’t say anything, she said, “It might be good if you contacted Mr. Foley. You could say it’s for your ongoing series about farming in the area.”

  “There is no ongoing series.”

  “He doesn’t need to know that. The girlfriend was a realtor. I could stop by her office and pretend I’m interested in buying something.”

  “You’re really into this.”

  Helen didn’t hesitate. “Yes I am. Aren’t you?"

  FIVE

  Driving to Josh’s that night, Delyth couldn’t keep her mind off the day. At first, she told herself she shouldn’t have given in to Helen’s fantasy of playing Miss Marple. When they’d first met, Delyth was still subbing on the crime desk; investigating murder was part of her job. At least that was how she justified it. What justification could she give Ted now if Vickie found out she’d been snooping around the edges of a murder? The politically smart move was to drop the whole thing, call the afternoon a fun outing with a new friend, and leave it at that.

  But she’d started thinking that the ploy Helen suggested to get Foley to agree to an interview could actually be a good idea for a feature article. She might be able to sell Ted on the “other side of the picture” angle, although she wasn’t sure how much of rich people’s gloating about their mansions and vanity vineyards she could endure. She’d done a quick Google search when she’d gotten home, and Foley did seem to be the poster child of the new money flooding the county. Going in with some direct quotes from him could strengthen her pitch to Ted. As she drove she developed a few questions she could ask if Foley agreed to an interview. By the time she arrived at Josh’s, she’d pretty much forgotten that her original intention was to grill Foley—subtly, of course—about the murder.

  Josh lived in a small, one-bedroom bungalow in a gentrifying but still mostly working-class neighborhood. Its sage green siding and pale cream trim were tasteful and unobtrusive. Even the bright red front door didn’t add as bold a touch as Josh seemed to think. His home spoke of a stability she found reassuring; he was not a man who’d suddenly disappear.

  She rang the doorbell, which was a strangely formal gesture given they slept together a couple times a week. They’d broken up four months before over an article she’d written critical of how the police were handling the DuQuenne murder. Josh was the head detective on the case. When they got back together a month later, they’d fallen right back into their old pattern as far as sex went, but much of their relationship still felt strained and self-conscious.

  “Come in,” Josh called. “It’s unlocked.”

  He was peeling potatoes at the kitchen counter. His indigo t-shirt conformed nicely to his lithe body, a much more attractive look than the bulky, dark suits he wore for work. He was letting his hair grow out, which made him look younger, more his age. Delyth thought he’d look good with a trim beard but he’d never do it. Too unprofessional, he’d say. Which was strange since, despite baggy suits and clean-shaven cheeks, Josh was such a clear contrast to the burlesque machismo of his fellow detectives.

  The aroma of sautéed onions and licorice filled the house. “Smells good in here,” Delyth said. “What’re we having?”

  “Tarragon chicken with fresh peas and mashed potatoes.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  With a vocal flourish and a wave of his knife, he said, “Only the best for you, my dear.” He pointed to a bottle standing on the kitchen island. “Pour us both a glass.”

  Delyth set about opening the wine.

  “What’ve you been up to?” Josh asked, focusing on the potatoes he was peeling.

  “I’m working on a new article about tech money and real estate prices. It could be a follow-up to my story about small farms in the area.” Her excitement for the new-money angle sounded in her voice.

  “Uh huh,” Josh mumbled. He moved to the skillet on the stove and carefully turned the chicken legs, obviously not paying much attention to her.

  She poured wine into glasses already sitting beside the bottle. “What do you know about Keir Foley?” She hadn’t intended the question. It’d just spilled out from her newfound enthusiasm for the story.

  Josh looked up from his cooking. “Why?” he ask
ed with a hint of wariness in his voice.

  “My article. Someone said he’d be a good person to talk to. He’s not even thirty-five and he’s the head of his second start-up. The first one went public making him scads of money. He moved here and built this huge modern house and vineyard. He’s perfect.”

  “Oh.” He turned back to his cooking. “I thought it was because he’s a neighbor of a murder victim.”

  It was Delyth’s turn to be wary. “And what if it was? Interviewing neighbors of murder victims is part of my job. At least, it could be.”

  “Of course.” He kept his head down, focused on the chicken. “It just gets complicated when our paths cross like that.”

  Well, that settles the question of whether he’s in charge of the investigation!

  “So reporters aren’t supposed to date cops?” she asked. For her, it was a serious question. Dating a detective could raise questions about her objectivity. She told herself it was okay because she was no longer the crime reporter. Plus, Josh was so resolutely not a source, not talking about his cases to anyone, not even in his sleep. Yet she’d never told her editor, worried he’d say she could never report on a case Josh was involved with.

  “I don’t know. You tell me. I do know cops can date reporters, if they’re hot enough.”

  “Which? The cop or the reporter?”

  “The reporter, of course.” He placed a splatter screen on the skillet and joined her at the island. “A man in uniform is always sexy.”

  “But you don’t wear a uniform.”

  “I guess that puts me at a disadvantage." He reached across the counter and gave her a kiss, his lips warm and smooth as they brushed against hers. He lingered, his breath soft against her cheek. She was no longer thinking about the ethics of their dating. Josh pulled away and took the bottle of wine to the stove. He poured several glugs into the skillet, releasing a burst of steam. “Did you know Foley’s business partner was killed in Mexico?”

  Delyth hadn’t had time for an extensive internet search earlier, but she’d managed to scan a couple of mostly uninformative articles. She was glad for more details. “All I found was that he’d been kidnapped and killed, even though the ransom had been paid.”

  “It wasn’t in my jurisdiction, so I don’t know much more than what was in the news. But I can tell you Foley paid the ransom. A million dollars.”

  “What do you mean, he paid? Not the company?”

  “That’s what I heard.” He plunked at least a dozen whole shallots and a bunch of tarragon into the skillet. “The reason I remember was that the kidnapper insisted on being paid with Bitcoin, so it couldn’t be traced. The first time I’d heard of that.”

  “He must have really liked his partner.” Realizing Josh was doing all the work, she added, “Say, can I help?”

  “Sure. You can help me with the peas.” He returned to the island and dumped a plastic bag of green pods between them. “Start shelling.”

  “A bowl would be helpful.” She waited as he fetched two small bowls and set one in front of each of them. “A million bucks. If he can afford that, he is the right person to talk to about tech money.”

  Josh stripped the string from a pod and fingered the peas into the bowl. “Good luck with that. Someone like Foley isn’t likely to agree to an interview.”

  ◆◆◆

  The newsroom was unusually quiet even for a Sunday morning, livened only by the incessant squawk and chatter of the police scanner. The only one on duty, Delyth missed the weekday shouts of other reporters yelling at sources on the phone or at each other across the room, distractions that typically irritated her, but that day would have been welcome relief. The slightly burned smell of the coffee she’d made over an hour earlier provided an excuse to walk to the break room and pour a cup she didn’t want and wouldn’t drink. The other Sunday reporters were out on assignment and wouldn’t be back for a couple more hours. There hadn’t even been the usual, casual, Sunday morning traffic in the office. Only the features editor came in for twenty minutes or so, saying hello but not indicating why he was there.

  Back at her desk, she stared at the scanner, willing it to announce a shooting, a fire, a five-car pileup, anything to justify her getting out and into the field. After five minutes of routine traffic stops and vagrancy reports, she gave up and returned to working on the weather forecast. She hadn’t been a reporter a year yet and already the chaos of meeting each day’s deadlines had become routine. The stories she raced to file were no more consequential than the papers she used to shuffle as a paralegal. Back then, she hadn’t cared which side won; her clients were as rapacious as the opposition’s. Now, she couldn’t conjure any more enthusiasm for the weather forecasts, obituaries and current events calendars she wrote up.

  She looked up when she heard the click of heels approaching. “Vickie, what are you doing here?”

  “Oh, Delyth, it’s your Sunday, is it?” Since she’d had the baby, Vickie had cut her hair short and taken to wearing pantsuits, like the mauve one she had on. She’d also acquired an anxious look as if she expected someone to jump at her from behind every bush, doorway, and corner. Perhaps it was a new-mother thing.

  “I don’t usually see beat reporters in on Sunday,” Delyth said. “At least not until later.”

  “I just came in to file a story.”

  “Oh?”

  “I had a tip the feds were going to bust a major marijuana operation.”

  “You didn’t have to come in for that. I could have handled it.” She would have been more than happy to handle it.

  “It came off way before you were awake, I’m sure. The baby is still waking me up at four.”

  “All the more reason why you should have called me. You need a day off.”

  “Oh, thank you, dear. But, because of the tip, I got to be on hand when they stormed the warehouse. So much better than playing catch up after the event. Besides, you know how difficult it is to pick up a story on Monday morning. The Sunday staff does the best they can, but it’s almost like starting all over.” Delyth’s neck tensed, her ears burned. But before she could come up with a retort, Vickie flashed a cheesy smile. “I really must file and get back home. The husband will be losing his mind about now trying to take care of the baby on his own.” She walked on.

  How dare she? The Sunday staff! They all worked hard. Delyth worked hard. Glad to contribute to the story. It was supposed to be a team. But who got the byline? The beat reporter.

  Delyth stared blindly at her computer screen. Her decision had already been made. It just took a few minutes for her to acknowledge it. No more tiptoeing around Vickie’s jealousy. She was going to interview Keir Foley and ask him about the murder.

  It being Sunday, a call to his office would go unanswered, the message she might leave listened to and probably ignored by an assistant. In an email she had to be careful. She’d be in a world of trouble if word got back that she was interviewing people about the murder. And word always seemed to get back.

  She began the email by explaining how she’d recently written an article about the plight of family farms, and how she now wanted to investigate the other side of the picture: the influx of tech money and its positive effect on real estate prices and agriculture, especially grapes and wine. She didn't bother to read it over, afraid she'd change her mind. Once her computer’s whoosh confirmed it was sent, she leaned back and took a swig of coffee. It was cold, but she barely noticed.

  She was prepared for his company’s PR department to get involved or, worse yet, a corporate lawyer who functioned as gatekeeper to a gate that would never open. Monday morning as she got ready for work, she was still devising other ways to reach him, when her email dinged with his reply. It said he’d be happy to talk with her and suggested, if Tuesday was good for her, they meet at his office. She couldn’t believe her luck. She hadn’t mentioned that Tuesday was her day off that week to make up for working Sunday, and the only day she could make it without her editor demanding she accou
nt for her time away from the office. It was working out better than she’d hoped.

  ◆◆◆

  Two days later, when Delyth arrived at his offices, the door was locked. Through the glass, she could see the receptionist’s desk un-manned or, more likely, un-womanned. She rang the bell and waited. No one came to let her in. She rang again. Finally, a young man with a straggly beard and baggy jeans walked by, saw her, opened the door but blocked the way in.

  “Hi, I’m Delyth Bitersee. I’m here for a meeting with Keir Foley.”

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “Yes, we have an appointment.”

  “I’ll let him know you’re here.” He closed the door, leaving her outside.

  It was cold as some days in April could be cold, spring being pushed out by a storm off the coast that never quite made it to shore. (Writing the weather reports was good for some things.) After a few minutes, a better-dressed man came to the door. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Engineers don’t have many of the social graces. He told me a ‘Delbert somebody’ wanted to see me.” He held the door for her to enter. “You must be Delyth.”

  He was tall—Delyth guessed six-two or six-three—and muscular. Despite it being five months ago and having only seen him at a distance, Delyth was sure he was the man in the silver DeLorean from the day she first interviewed the Duddas. Up close, he was handsome, but a slight tilt of the head when they shook hands suggested he knew it, which diminished his good looks. A teal green shirt and khaki pants with no tie suggested high-tech’s relaxed dress code, but the starch in the shirt and soldierly crease down the pant legs destroyed any suggestion of casual.

  Foley led her around the logoed, fake wall that backed the empty reception desk. The large space beyond was divided into neat blocks of high-walled cubicles with aisles named after wines. They entered at the intersection of Zin Alley and Chard Way. Over half the cubicles they passed were vacant. The occupants of the rest were all young, all staring intently at computer screens with a second, different screen glowing behind them.

  “Most of the development team are either in Dublin or Bangalore,” Foley explained. “The people here are management and quality control.”