Carl shook his head. “No, that’d be nicotine.”
“Right,” Tiffany said. “What we found were actual raw tobacco leaves. Did Arthur ever do any tobacco farming?”
“Not that I know of,” Carl said.
“I’d have a hard time believing a cardiologist would have had anything to do with a tobacco farm. Half of his patients’ problems were caused by smoking,” I added.
“All right,” Carl said, looking at the clock on his wall. “I’ve got to get going on Thad’s paperwork. Thanks again for getting this to me.”
“My pleasure!” Tiffany said, and it was clear that she meant it.
A short while later, I stood just outside the steps to the sheriff’s office with Thad, Tabitha, and a still grim-faced Carl Haight. As Gail predicted, Carl had decided to let Tabitha’s fake confession slide with the understanding that she was not to interfere in the investigation again.
“No more dramatics,” he said and pointed a finger at her. “I understand this is an emotional situation, but you need to take a step back and let me do my job. If I have any more trouble from you, I won’t be so nice next time.”
“I promise,” Tabitha said, and she even had the decency to look contrite.
“Thad, you’re also free to go, but don’t leave town,” Carl continued. “The prosecutor hasn’t decided to file charges yet, but she still has that option.”
Thad squinted up at Carl, the sun bouncing off of his pale skin, made even more so by spending two days in the clink. He extended a hand to Carl, which I thought was pretty big of him considering. “Thank you,” he said.
It took me a minute to realize he was thanking him for letting Tabitha off the hook.
As soon as Carl walked back inside, Tabitha turned to me. “Spill.”
“What?”
“The autopsy report. It’s public record anyway. You might as well tell us what was in it and save us the trouble of hunting it down. It’s really the least you can do.”
“The least I can do? What’re you talking—” I stopped myself. On her best day Tabitha was suspicious and snappish; with all the stress she was under at that moment, it was probably wise not to argue with her. So I chose the path of least resistance and told them everything Tiffany Peters had just shared with Carl and me.
“Your dad didn’t have anything to do with tobacco farming, did he?” I asked Thad.
“No, never.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Tabitha jumped in. “So that means the killer must live or work on a tobacco farm. Okay. So here’s a list of things we need to do.” She ticked off each item on her fingers as she talked. “Number one, we need to get a listing of all the tobacco farms in the area. Two, we need to find out if anyone involved in those farms had a connection to Arthur. Three, Thad, you and I need to get over to City Hall and apply for our marriage license—it’s good for thirty days. Four, Riley, you—”
“You can’t be serious,” Thad interrupted her.
“What?”
“We can’t get married in ten days.”
Tabitha couldn’t have looked more surprised if she’d been smacked across the face by Cookie Monster. “Huh?”
That was my cue. “Seems like you kids have some things to talk about, so I’m just gonna head—”
“No, Riley, stay.” Tabitha put her hand on her tiny hip (which she’d been working on with Gregor, her trainer, in order to look good in her wedding dress). “Thad, what are you talking about?”
“Listen, I’m not saying call it off or anything—just postpone. With everything that’s happened . . .”
Thad kept talking and I, desperate to avoid being a part of this awkward and personal conversation, took a step back and looked around—anywhere but at the two of them. My head was swiveled toward the square when something there caught my attention. It was stupid Gerlach Spencer with his stupid messenger bag slung across his stupid chest walking out of the Times office and toward the sheriff’s office.
“Don’t you agree, Riley?” Tabitha’s voice snapped my attention back to the moment.
“What?”
“I said, don’t you agree that Arthur would have wanted us to get married? That he wouldn’t want his death to come between us?”
“I . . . um . . .”
Spencer would be close enough to see me soon. I needed to get out of there—fast.
“I gotta go,” I said already turning to dash down the back alley behind the sheriff’s office. “I’m sure you’ll figure out what’s best!”
In my haste to flee the scene, I rounded the corner and almost mowed into Ridley, who had been walking up Forsythe. I threw up a silent prayer that I hadn’t actually knocked her over (knocking down my ex’s pregnant girlfriend would so be the talk of the town) as I snuck a glance behind me. Spencer was about fifty yards back; he looked like he was on the phone. I wondered if he’d seen me.
“Hi!” I said, grabbing Ridley by the elbow and leading her off in the opposite direction. “What are you out here doing? Going shopping? Meeting Ryan for lunch?” It may have been the first time I’d ever initiated conversation with Ridley.
“I was just heading to see you actually,” she said. “I heard what happened to that handsome friend of yours—David? I want to help.”
Help? What the hell was she talking about? “Um, I’m not sure what you can do. Maybe you could bring him some flowers or something?”
“I already went to go see him.”
“You did?” They met for like two minutes. Now she was visiting him in the hospital? Why was this woman suddenly everywhere?
“David and I, we made a . . . connection,” she said, taking a moment before settling on the right word. “He told me what he told you about his father’s death maybe having to do with that Invigor8 company. He says you are investigating. Let me help you.”
We walked along Forsythe, which runs parallel to the park along the back of the municipal buildings that
