“Uhhh, I don’t know how—”
“I’ll do it.” Luke reached for the fabric and some sort of weird tool. “Mrs. Granger, you have us on the edge of our seats. What’s going on?”
“Right, well, Rosa mentioned when June had her accident she might’ve been coming from Woodville. Now, your aunt didn’t talk about her cases often, Megan, but there was one she kept asking us to pray about. Quentin Purdue. Young kid, around eighteen or so. He died of a supposed overdose last year, but his grandmother wasn’t buying it. She hired June a while back to look into the matter.”
“Remember when you asked me about Woodville at church?” Rosa asked. “I knew it rang a bell, but I couldn’t remember why. Bessie remembered Quentin’s grandmother lives out that way.”
Megan frowned. The case wasn’t familiar, but June didn’t discuss everything with her.
“When did my aunt start working the case?”
Bessie fiddled with the end of her scarf. “I’d say around three months ago. It was something of a rush because the grandmother is very ill. June wanted to get to the bottom of the case before she died.”
Gerdie entered the kitchen, her soft-soled shoes squeaking against the linoleum. She set a bag down on the table and the scent of muffins tickled Megan’s nose. From the laundry room, the washing machine started banging.
“Gerdie, hon, would you close that door?” Rosa asked. “Silly washing machine walks all over the room when it starts the spin cycle.”
Luke ripped out the last stitch and handed the fabric back to Bessie. She perched her glasses on her nose and studied his work.
“Luke, dear, you did a fantastic job. Oh, your momma raised you right by teaching you how to sew. I wish more men were like you.”
Despite the seriousness of the conversation, Megan’s mouth twitched, and she nudged Luke under the table with her foot. It hadn’t been his mother who taught him. Hank could wield a needle and thread better than any seamstress.
Color rose in Luke’s cheeks, and he cleared his throat. “Mrs. Granger, you were telling us about Quentin.”
“Right.” Bessie nodded. “Like I said, the police are convinced Quentin died of an overdose, but June was also certain he was murdered.”
Gerdie stumbled, a plate for the muffins in her hand, and Luke caught her before she could fall. A blush flooded Gerdie’s face, and she muttered, “Sorry.”
Megan leaned on the table. “Why did June believe he’d been murdered?”
Bessie grabbed a straight pin out of a stuffed tomato. “Well, I don’t rightly know. Your aunt didn’t give us a play-by-play of her cases, dear. But the Wednesday before her accident, she asked for extra prayers. Made me think maybe she was making progress on Quentin’s case, and I was sure to send up a message to the good Lord asking for His help.”
Rosa nodded in agreement.
“What about Franny’s murder? Did she ever talk about that?”
“Only a bit here and there. Honestly, I thought she’d given up on that investigation a long time ago.”
Megan took the coffee Gerdie offered, her mind whirling with the new information. She’d also thought her aunt was done looking into her brother’s innocence. Was it possible she’d stumbled across new evidence while working Quentin’s case?
“Anyway, even though I wasn’t caught up on everything going on, I did mention this to Brent after I heard of June’s car accident,” Bessie continued. “I thought it might be pertinent. I mean, Megan, I always said your aunt missed her calling as a NASCAR driver. She liked her gas pedal, but she never had an accident. I didn’t believe for one moment she went into the ravine on her own.”
“When you told Brent about it, what did he say?” Luke asked.
Megan didn’t shift positions, but she heard the undertone hidden in Luke’s voice. He was furious.
“Oh, he told me not to worry myself about it. You know my boy, Luke. But when Rosa mentioned you thought June was in Woodville…well, I didn’t feel right about not saying something to you. Just in case it slipped Brent’s mind.”
Luke’s muscles were rigid, and a headache was brewing in the base of his skull as he stepped into the bullpen of the sheriff’s department. It was Friday afternoon, and most of the desks were empty. Dan’s office was dark, the door closed, as was the sheriff’s.
“Wait here,” he told Megan, pointing to a chair at an empty desk. “I’ll be right back.”
She nodded and sat down. Luke was thankful she didn’t put up a fuss. Yes, this concerned her as well, but the conversation with Brent would be easier without an audience. And probably more honest.
He marched through the bullpen to the conference room they’d taken over as a command center for the investigation. Brent was inside, writing notes on the whiteboard.
“Did your mother tell you about a case June was working on?” Luke asked, cutting straight to the chase.
Brent blinked, and his mouth dropped open slightly. “Yeah. She mentioned it a couple of days ago.”
“And you didn’t think it was important enough to tell me about?” He pointed a finger at the photograph of June’s wrecked car hanging in the middle of the whiteboard. “That’s my case up there, Brent. Anything that could pertain to it, I should know about.”
“That’s…it doesn’t…” He took a deep breath. “Okay, hold on. I get why you're ticked off, but the two cases aren’t connected.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because Quentin Perdue died of an overdose. I know June was suspicious, but the guy was an addict and the batch of drugs he’d taken was bad. There was nothing more to it.”
“Your mother mentioned June may have found something new on the case?”
Brent fiddled with his wedding ring. “I know, but I visited Camilla Perdue, Quentin’s grandmother. She’s had several strokes and the last one made it impossible for her to answer any of
