impress anyway.

I didn’t text Preston. Despite the fact that I’d told him would, I figured since Fern knew what I was doing that was safe enough. Besides, if Preston wasn’t busy, he might show up.

As I neared the cannery building, I scanned the parking lot for Kenny’s truck. Then it occurred to me that it was highly unlikely he still drove the same vehicle that he had in high school.

Then again, it didn’t matter if he was here. I was moving on. I had moved on. I wasn’t in love with him anymore. Was I?

Enough. I needed to focus on finding Floyd.

I walked along the side of the building toward the fish processing area, where I assumed Floyd worked. Two men were outside carrying a heavy-looking cooler that I assumed was full of fish or maybe crab. Commercial fisherman, locals, and tourists all used the cannery to process their fish and seafood, so it wasn’t uncommon to see coolers, bags, and various types of crates.

They were nearing the back door when they spotted me and stopped. “Can I help you?” one burly man with a beard asked.

“Hi, I was hoping to speak with Floyd Henderson.” I flashed a friendly smile. “Is he working today?”

“Yeah,” the bearded man replied, reaching for the door handle. “He’s inside, I’ll get him.” The men carried the cooler through the door and disappeared.

Suddenly nervous, I began to pace. I took a deep breath through my nose and exhaled out of my mouth. It didn’t help.

“Hi,” a man said gruffly.

I looked up as a man wearing water-repellent gear stepped outside. “Hi. Are you Floyd?” There was a slight resemblance to Earl in the face, but Floyd was younger and much slimmer than his brother and had several days of stubble on his face.

“Yeah,” he nodded.

“I’m Charlee King.” I approached him and extended my hand.

He eyed me warily, holding up a gloved hand. “No need for that.”

I let my hand drop. Okay then. “First, I wanted to say I’m sorry for your loss.”

He dipped his head in acknowledgement.

“And I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about your brother.”

His eyes narrowed as his gaze raked over me. “Are you the mayor’s daughter?”

“Yes.” I smiled widely again.

“You found the body.”

I nodded.

“Huh,” he grunted. “You ain’t with the cops, are ya?”

“Oh no. Your brother was killed on my aunt’s property. I know my aunt didn’t kill Earl, and I was hoping you might know something that could help me figure out who did.”

“Fine.” He scuffed his boot against the concrete. “What do ya want to know?”

I got straight to the point. “Was Earl involved in something illegal?”

Floyd averted his gaze. “No.”

He was lying, and I worried this conversation might end before I learned anything. “Floyd, if you’re just going to tell me the same lies you gave to the cops, this isn’t going to help anyone.” He scraped his boot on the pavement again, looking at the ground.

“Don’t you want whoever killed your brother to pay for their crime?” I was riding on the assumption that Floyd hadn’t killed Earl, which I hadn’t ruled out, but my first impression of him was that he wasn’t the type to murder his sibling.

And yes, I could be wrong, but none of his previous crimes had been violent, and other than being rough around the edges, he didn’t seem dangerous. Preston’s warning rang in my mind. Then again, let’s just hope I wasn’t wrong.

“Why ya doing this again?” Floyd finally looked up at me.

“Because I want to clear my aunt,” I said honestly. “And I don’t want a murderer to go free. I didn’t know your brother other than meeting him briefly, but I would like there to be justice for his wife.”

He nodded. “Patty is a good woman. She didn’t deserve this.”

“So, are you willing to help me, Floyd?” I asked gently, hoping I’d coaxed him into telling me the truth.

“Yeah, all right, but…” He pointed a gloved finger toward my chest. “You don’t breathe a word of this to the cops, and if I find out you do then…” he lifted his hand and made a cutting motion across his throat with his finger.

I instinctively stepped back. Maybe it was a bit premature to dismiss Floyd as a suspect.

“I understand,” I gulped. “What was Earl involved in?”

“He was helping me deliver stuff,” he said in a lowered voice.

“What kind of stuff?”

“We don’t look in the packages.”

“Is it safe to assume that it was drugs?” I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Could be.”

Okay, so Earl was helping Floyd smuggle drugs. “How long has this been going on?”

“I dunno. A while.”

I was beginning to think Floyd also did drugs, since he was having difficulty answering basic questions.

“Are we talking a year? Six months?” I probed.

“Six months or so, I guess.”

“How did Earl get involved in this?”

“He said he needed money.”

That was interesting, because Patty said she and Earl were financially doing fine. Maybe she’d lied. “Didn’t he sell his business to Russell Jenkins? I thought that was his retirement.”

Floyd scoffed. “Jenkins screwed him over. Hardly paid him squat for the business. I told my brother he could make some of my deliveries for a while, you know, to help him out. Earl got me out of some scrapes, so I figured I at least owed him that.” A nice sentiment, however misguided.

“So, Earl was making deliveries. Where to?”

“Here, there,” Floyd replied vaguely. This man was trying my patience.

“Local? Out of town?”

“Both, some in town, some out of town. Occasionally, we go to Portland, but mostly focus on the area here. Smaller fish, less competition,” he explained.

“Do you think this could have gotten him killed?” It’s possible there was a deal gone wrong, but then wouldn’t the murder have occurred when he made a delivery? And not in Fern’s barn.

Floyd shook his head. “Like I said. We’re not selling drugs. We deliver packages. We don’t even handle money. Most drops, we don’t see nobody.”

It looked like I needed to go higher up

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