Chapter Sixteen
Casey took her time riding down the town’s streets, unoccupied as they were by cars or people. The architecture was impressive—or, it would’ve been a hundred years earlier. Her tour made it clear that The Nesting Place wasn’t the only pretty Queen Anne in town. Just the only one whose owners could afford to refurbish it. Many of the houses she was seeing appeared to be divided into multiple apartments, with more than the town’s fair share of undrivable cars sitting either in driveways or corners of yards. Even if a home was single-family, it lacked the finished look of Rosemary and Lillian’s inn.
That’s not to say there weren’t homey touches. A pot of flowers here, a tarnished Welcome sign there… The people of Clymer may have been hurting—financially and otherwise—but they hadn’t forgotten those little details. She couldn’t help but wonder how it was Lillian and Rosemary could afford to have their place looking the way it did.
Casey pulled up to a stop sign, where she dutifully stopped and looked both ways. She held her position, waiting for the cop car, coming from her right, to either pass or make a turn. Instead, it pulled to the side of the road, and a middle-aged man got out of the driver’s side.
He nodded and sauntered her way. “Nice day for a bike ride.”
Casey got off of the bike and put down the kickstand, freeing her hands and balancing herself on the balls of her feet. It wasn’t that she expected the police officer to attack her, but sitting on her bike felt too precarious. Although she probably could take him if he came after her, as he wasn’t any too young and she would have the element of surprise. Besides, he was tiny. She had an inch and twenty pounds on him, at least.
The cop looked her over, from behind what looked like prescription sunglasses. “May I ask your name?”
“Casey Smith. I’m staying at The Nesting Place.”
“Ah, yes, of course.”
Like he hadn’t known that.
Casey remembered the articles she’d read about Ellen’s death. “The chief of police, I assume?”
“That’s me. Denny Reardon. Grew up here. Probably’ll die here, too.” He angled his head toward the cruiser. “I was out for a little ride myself. Checking things out. Don’t suppose you’d care to join me on a little jaunt?”
She glanced at the car. “No, I wouldn’t.”
His eyebrows gravitated upward.
“But thank you.” Casey put a hand on the bike’s handlebars. “I prefer bikes.”
“I see. Any particular reason?”
“Saves gas.”
“Um-hmmm.” He jingled something on his belt as he made a show of looking down the street. “Something you’re finding interesting in our town, Ms. Jones?”
“Smith,” she said. She tried to gauge his tone. Was he accusing her of something? Or just naturally curious? Or paranoid? “I’m just traveling through.”
“But getting awfully involved, meanwhile.”
“The play, you mean?”
He took off his sunglasses, pulled out a handkerchief, and cleaned the lenses, breathing onto them and smearing the fabric across the glass. “Sure. Sure, that’s what I mean.”
“Yeah, well, that just sort of happened. I wasn’t planning on staying in town that long.”
“I see. And you know people here? Eric VanDiepenbos? The ladies at the bed and breakfast, perhaps?”
“Not before two days ago.”
He nodded some more. “And where did you come from two days ago?”
“Detroit.”
“Motor City. Tigers fan, are you?”
“No. I like the Rockies, myself.”
He looked at her sharply. “You’re from Colorado?”
“No, but they’ve got lots of young, handsome players.”
He kept his eyes on her, sucking his cheeks to his teeth. Eventually he said, “So you like handsome young men?”
“Sure. Who doesn’t?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “There’s some who say you came to town for Eric.”
“Really?”
“And some who say you came to town for HomeMaker.”
“HomeMaker? Why?”
“I suppose you’d have to tell me.”
She frowned, wondering who exactly the chief had been talking to. She asked him.
“Oh, just this person and that person. You know. A variety.”
“So there must be more theories.”
He grinned a little. “Of course. You’re FBI, come to check out our failing factory, or you’re the opposite, and wanted by the FBI. You’re a traveling journalist, documenting your experiences, you know, like that guy, what’s his name, Charles Kuralt. Some even say…” He gave her a steady look. “You’re the long-lost sister of Ellen Schneider, come to get revenge for her death.”
Casey swallowed. “But I thought she killed herself.”
“That’s right, but something had to drive her to it, isn’t that right?”
“I guess.” She picked at the wrap on the bike’s handlebars. “Any chance she didn’t kill herself?”
The chief gave her a long look, then slowly placed his sunglasses back over his eyes. “It’s been officially ruled a suicide, Ms. Smith. The autopsy confirmed she died of an overdose of her own sleeping pills. She sat down with a few cups of coffee and just about emptied the bottle. No bruises saying someone forced her to take them. No needle marks saying someone shot her up with something. All of the evidence points away from there being anyone else involved.”
“No fingerprints?”
He snorted. “Been talking to your friends at The Nesting Place, have you? They’d like me to call in favors from the governor to get Ellen’s entire house taken apart and analyzed.”
“But fingerprints are simple.”
“Yeah. And these simple prints are telling us no one else was involved. I really don’t think there’s any point in bringing her death up again, questioning how it happened. People here have enough to worry about these days, without thinking that maybe Ellen was murdered.” He held up a hand, forestalling her response. “I wish to God she hadn’t done it, Ms. Smith, but facts are facts. Nothing we can do will change them, and it’s not worth getting everybody all riled up over something that’s not true, or even likely.”
“Her kids might think differently.”
“Her kids are ten and seven. I really don’t think it matters to them one way or the other, does it?”
“You don’t?”
“Either way, they’re orphans.”
“Yes, but one way she chose to leave them, and the other she didn’t. I’d say that matters a lot.”
“Ms. Smith, that might matter to some people. Her family, sure, I can give you that. Her friends, like your hostesses at the bed and breakfast. They’ve made no secret of their feelings. Her boyfriend…” He looked at her meaningfully. “But somehow, Ms. Smith, I don’t see that it should matter a whole lot to you.”
“But—”
“Good day, Ms. Smith.” He began the trek back across the street, but stopped when he reached his cruiser, turning to her as if struck by a sudden thought. “And you know, I find myself hoping one last theory about you is true.”
“Really? And what is that?”
“That you’re a gypsy, and you can only stay in one place a few days at a time, or poof!” He splayed his fingers upward. “You evaporate.”
Casey watched him, her mouth open, as he opened his car door and slid into the seat. With a slight wave he accelerated through the intersection and drove off.
