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Coffee is set up; just push the lid down. Breakfast is a salmon hash. I made enough for both of us. Take the plate with the leftovers, pop them in the microwave and give them 90 seconds. Test to see if it’s warm enough. If not, no more than 30 seconds at a time.
I’ll be back as soon as I can. Either work on your book or if you want to work the case, start trying to make sense of and organize the stuff we put on the board. I keep feeling that while we don’t have all the information, we’re on the right track.
Miss you already,
Slade
As stupid as it was, she had to keep from hugging herself and squealing with delight. It was obvious that he wasn’t yet ready to call it love, but then, neither was she. She wondered if it was because one or both of them wasn’t sure, or because they were just afraid to speak the words for fear the other one didn’t feel the same. Regardless of what anyone called it, it was obvious she meant something to him, and he meant something—if not everything—to her. Jessica had talked about how she’d found her priorities shifting when she’d fallen for Thorn. Fiona realized she could feel that same shift.
Depressing the lid, she opened her fridge and laughed—it had never been this clean nor this organized in all the time she’d owned it. Pulling out the hash he’d left, she stuck it in the microwave and heated as directed. Taking it out, she put a fork in her mouth. Everyone said reheated food never tasted as good as when it was freshly made. If that was true, Fiona couldn’t wait to have this again. As it was, it was amazing.
Fueled with food and coffee, she cleaned up the kitchen and started the dishwasher. Her contractor had balked at putting it in, but Fiona hated washing dishes. As she lived alone, she opted for an eighteen inch one and set it to washing. She grabbed a second mug of coffee and headed back over to her murder board, turning it and her laptop on.
Slade was right; they had a lot of information, but not all of it seemed connected, and it was pretty disorganized. She narrowed her focus to the photos from the newspaper and then looked online for Daniel’s paintings, sweeping them up onto the whiteboard. The paintings stirred something inside her—not quite a memory, but more than an imaginary feeling. She tilted her head to one side as if that might improve her perspective.
Sitting down, she studied the photos—again, there was a familiarity about them, but for the life of her, she couldn’t put names to faces. Partly it was because the pictures were blurry and faded and partly because she hadn’t known most of the people at the party very well. Slade would face the same issues. How the hell were they going to put names to those who had been there when the reports and articles had been either vague or redacted?
As Fiona drained the last dregs of her coffee, she was seized by inspiration. Going back into the kitchen, she made herself a third cup of coffee. As it was streaming into her mug, she went to her bookshelf and pulled the yearbook from her freshman year, cursing herself for not thinking of it sooner. Slowly but surely, she began to compare faces in the book to the images on the murder board. It was painstaking work, but little-by-little the memories began to return, and she was able to assign names to the people in the pictures. She noted anything she could remember about a person under their name.
She looked at the four abstract paintings. Was Daniel trying to tell them something? Was he trying to accuse those he held responsible? Fiona was beginning to remember that the accident had hit Daniel harder than most and that he had withdrawn into the world he depicted even in his earliest drawings. Studying the paintings, she realized they were in sequential order and that if ordered correctly and connected together in a certain pattern, it was easier to make out the whole from the sum of its parts. It was clear that Daniel didn’t believe the fall was an accident.
In fact, it appeared as though Daniel believed it was murder.
Fiona began to refine the assembly of the total picture, taking her clues from the photographs. Even though Daniel’s abstracts didn’t show people or facesper se, the various shapes did follow the patterns in the photos and if you compared them side by side, you could begin to make sense of them. If her theory was correct, she could even assign names to the images depicted by Daniel.
As the list grew, she recognized that several of the individuals shown were now prominent citizens in Angel’s Rise, and some of them held significant positions, including Denny Langden, who was the chief of the fire department and Jimmy Langden’s son; Diane Bettis; Maryann Howell, who was the town’s comptroller; and even Tim Bellamy, the town’s mayor.
She glanced at the antique mantle clock that sat on the top of her open shelving. She had just enough time to pull on a pair of jeans and step into a pair of stylish, heeled booties. She’d have to make her coffee downstairs. She left the loft, remembering to lock it, and trotted down the stairs, opening the door and smiling as she saw the truck bearing her new front window heading down the street.
“Hey, Fiona,” called Jimmy Langden as he followed her inside.
She turned to him. “Is there something I can do for you, Chief?” she asked, hating how cold her tone was. She wasn’t really angry with him; he’d done nothing wrong, but he hadn’t done anything right either. He could have advocated more strongly for her when Slade had taken her into custody, but he hadn’t. She understood that his hands had been tied, but only to a point.
“I just wanted to apologize for all that’s happened. I never should have let Slade arrest you…”
“Technically, he didn’t. He took me into custody for questioning. I understand your position, but I guess I expected more of you.” She shrugged. “And I hate how bitchy that sounds. Feelings aren’t always rational.”
“I get that. Can I still bum a cup of coffee?” he asked.
“Sure. Help yourself. I didn’t have time to make muffins or cookies this morning.”
“Fiona?” asked the window repairman. “I got your window here.”
“Give me a minute to clean out that space, and it’s all yours.”
She hurried to clear the space and was happy to see most of her regulars come by to browse or just get a cup of coffee. Holy Grounds’ coffee might technically be better, but hers was free, and she and Joyce had never felt as though they were in competition.
There was a lot of banging and dust, but after a couple of hours the repair was completed, and Fiona had to admit the window looked as good as new. People came and went, and she made a fair number of sales. She wondered if some weren’t coming in to check on her welfare and if others just hadn’t come to take a gander at the woman who had been arrested. Slade might see it as a big difference, but to most people it was just a technicality.
After the repairman left, there was a lull in the shopping traffic, and Fiona was able to not only get her inventory and sales records caught up to date, but she also had a chance to add to her current work in progress. She realized she hadn’t had a chance to talk to Slade. She called his phone and reached his voicemail.
She left him a message. “I got your note this morning. The hash was delicious. The kitchen is cleaned up. Why don’t I pick up the orders from the butcher and Becky? I had a chance to work on the cold case. I’m pretty sure I made a major breakthrough. I can’t wait to show it to you. It’s really rather ingenious. I’m not sure if Daniel had figured it out, but I think he was on his way to doing so, even if he didn’t know it. Love you.” She added the last bit in a hurry, deciding she would confront her fear head on. If he didn’t feel that way about her or didn’t think he could, better to know now.
Proud of herself for doing the brave thing, she set her phone down and headed to the front door, closing and locking it as well as turning over the open sign that hung on it. She turned off the light and was heading to the side entrance to get to the outside stairs that led to her loft when Diane swung out from between the tall bookshelves and leveled the barrel of a gun at her.
“I’ll take that,” she said, reaching out and snatching Fiona’s phone away. Looking down at Fiona’s footwear, she smiled a reptilian smile and said, “The phone call was unfortunate, and the shoes are definitely not appropriate for what I had in mind.” She hitched the gun toward the door. “This way. We’ll take my Jeep.” Diane tossed her the keys. “It’s parked right outside. You drive.”
Not knowing what else to do, Fiona slid past the gun and prayed she could stall for enough time that Slade would find her. He had to rescue her, right? That’s what the heroes in books did.
