CHAPTER THREE
A flash at the edge of my vision caught my eye, and I scanned the light down Justin's body. The red handle of a large screwdriver jutted out of his chest. The phone dropped from my hand, bouncing on the cement floor and throwing grotesque shadows around the horrific scene.
What if I'm not alone in here?
My hand clamped across my mouth as I swallowed back a scream. My gaze darted around the room. If someone wanted to kill me, wouldn't they have done it by now? But what did I know? I wasn't a criminal mastermind.
I scrambled to my phone and held it up, using the light like a shield between myself and whatever lurked in the shadows. "Don't try any funny business," I shouted into the darkness, my voice cracking. "I'm a black belt in taekwondo." It was a lie, but a lie that made me feel marginally better.
Still the room was silent. I inched closer to Justin. His dark-brown eyes stared back at me, the look on his face one of surprise. My stomach churned. Where was Chris? Why would he ask me to meet him here? Was he hurt too? I needed help. I needed the police. I dialed 9-1-1 through my shattered screen protector.
"9-1-1, what's your emergency?" a woman's voice said.
"I found a body. A dead one. At least, I think he's dead. He's got a big screwdriver in his chest. Maybe he's just hurt?" I prayed I was wrong about Justin being dead as another wave of panic squeezed the air from my lungs and tears burned the backs of my eyes. "His eyes are open. I need—"
"Ma'am," the operator interrupted, "I need you to slow down and take a deep breath. Are you safe?"
"I don't know." My voice came out a strangled whisper as I backed toward the nearest wall.
"I'm sending the police and an ambulance to your location. I need you to stay on the line with me," she said firmly but calmly.
"Okay," I said as I pressed my back against the wall, wishing it would swallow me up.
"Are you hurt, ma'am?" the operator asked, her voice calm.
"No, Justin's hurt!" My voice was anything but calm.
"Someone there is injured?" she asked.
My gaze cut to where Justin lay on his back, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. "I don't know. I think he's dead." Sirens sounded in the distance. "I can hear the police," I said.
"That's good. Can you meet them at the door?" she asked.
"I'm scared to move. What if someone's in here with me?" I asked, the fear threatening to undo me.
"Is the door unlocked?" she asked.
"Yes," I squeaked out.
"Okay, then just stay right where you are," she said soothingly.
Red and blue lights danced across the room as a police cruiser pulled into the parking lot. I peered through the window next to me. An officer climbed out of the driver's seat, paused, and spoke into the radio on his shoulder. A few seconds later, another siren.
"The police are here," I told the operator. I couldn't stop shaking. I couldn't feel my hands. I fumbled the phone, almost dropping it again.
I raised it back to my ear in time to hear the operator say, "I'm going to hang up. The police will help you."
"Thanks. Thank you so much," I said, my voice wobbly with unshed tears.
The officer advanced on the building, his hand resting on the gun at his side. He glanced behind him as an ambulance pulled into the lot but continued forward. I squinted through the grimy glass as the officer passed through a pool of light cast by the streetlight overhead.
Tommy Palmer Jr., another high school friend—although he'd been one year behind Justin, Chris, and me—reached the door. He disappeared from view as the door eased opened. "Police! Anyone here?" he called out.
"Tommy?" I asked.
Tommy swung his flashlight in my direction, and I raised my hand to shield my face, blinking rapidly.
"Gwen?" he asked, sounding shocked. He lowered the flashlight, pointing it at my feet. "The dispatcher said there was someone on the scene but didn't give any identifying information."
Tommy stopped by Camelot Flowers, our family's flower shop, every Friday to buy flowers for his wife. They'd just had their first baby. Seeing him now flooded my body with relief.
"What's going on?" he asked as he moved toward me.
"I got a text from Chris asking me to meet him here. He said there was an emergency. When I got here, I found Justin." I pointed to the corner where Justin lay. Tommy swung the beam of light toward Justin and froze. Uncertainty played across his face, but he gave his head a slight shake and moved toward the body.
"Have you touched him?" he asked.
"No, I—I couldn't," I said.
"Where's Crawford?" Tommy asked as he bent down and placed his fingers on Justin's neck. The stricken look on Tommy's face told me everything I needed to know.
The door banged open, and two paramedics marched in carrying bags of equipment.
"Over here, guys," Tommy called out.
They wove their way through the minefield of construction debris and knelt to examine the body. Tommy pushed himself to standing and repeated his question. "Gwen, where's Crawford?"
"What?" I rubbed my hand across my eyes, trying to blot out the image of Justin lying dead on the floor, but it was seared into my memory.
The paramedics went to work on Justin, attaching all sorts of equipment I didn't recognize and using terms I didn't understand.
Tommy moved to stand next to me. "You said Chris asked you to come here. Where is he?" he asked again.
I tore my gaze from Justin's body as I pulled the edges of my sweater closed across my chest. "I don't know. When I got here, the door was unlocked. Once I found Justin, I called 9-1-1. I was too scared to move," I explained.
Tommy looked over his shoulder at the paramedics and said, "Wilson, we gotta check the building for anyone else who might be injured."
My gut twisted, and I sagged against the wall behind me. Tommy reached out and grabbed my arm. "You okay?" he asked.
My worst fears came to life as my mind digested Tommy's words. "You think Chris is here? That's he's hurt? Or worse?" I said, my voice trembling.
"Let's get you settled in my car where it's warmer. Chris is probably fine, but we need to check just in case. Can you show me where the light switches are?" Tommy asked.
I led him to a panel of switches across the room. This didn't make sense. Justin was dead. Not just dead. Murdered. Things like this didn't happen in Star Junction. Things like this didn't happen to people I knew. I flipped three of the switches, and the ancient florescent lights sputtered to life. I winced as my eyes adjusted to the suddenly bright space.
I looked back at Justin's body and shuddered. The scene was even more horrific under the harsh lights. Tommy took my elbow and steered me toward the door. "Come on. Let's get you settled," he said. "I'll let you know as soon as we've cleared the building. You're going to need to stay until Detective Butler gets here. He's going to want to ask you some questions." Tommy led me toward the car, my movements on autopilot.
Tears pricked the back of my eyes as I thought about Justin's parents sleeping peacefully in their house across town. Tommy leaned across me and turned the heat up. "I've gotta go back in and help. You sit tight. We'll get this sorted out and get you home in no time," he said.
I wasn't an expert on murder, but I didn't think it could be sorted out in no time. I leaned my head back against the cold, hard vinyl of the seat. How had I ended up here? That's easy. You jumped when Chris called.
I slid lower in the seat and pulled my hands up into the sleeves of my sweater. Where was Chris? Why would he do this to me? What would I tell my parents? As the car warmed, I blinked, fighting sleep. Maybe I'd close my eyes for a minute, gather my thoughts. Maybe then I could figure out how Justin ended up dead in my best friend's building.
* * *
A sharp rap on the window yanked me into consciousness. I yelped and tried to scramble away from the face staring at me through the fogged window. The man opened the door and extended his hand. "Hey, hey, hey. It's okay," he said soothingly.
His brown eyes, the color of golden whiskey, glowed under the lights in the parking lot. He scanned my face and then my body as if taking some sort of inventory. "I'm Detective Butler. I understand you found the victim?" he said.
"Yeah, I found Justin," I said weakly. My eyes stung with unshed tears. I sniffed and rubbed my hands over my face.
A murder.
In Chris's building.
I sprang out of the car, causing the detective to take a step back. "Where's Chris?" I demanded. "Did they find him? Is he okay?"
Detective Butler folded his arms across his chest and looked down at me. He was at least a foot taller than me, towering over me in his crisp blue suit covered by a dark-gray overcoat. Appearing to be in his early thirties, his dark-brown hair, short on the sides but longer on top, was gelled to perfection, despite the early morning hour. He had a short beard that he ran his hand over as he regarded me silently. He smelled expensive, like cologne from a high-end department store.
Wearing expensive cologne and what looked like an expensive suit. Meanwhile, I looked exactly like someone who'd rushed out of bed in the middle of the night, mismatched pajamas and all. My hair? Who knew what was happening up there?
I'd decided to grow my hair out two years ago, and to say I'd been successful would've been an understatement. It nearly reached my waist, which meant I wore it up more often than not. My hair could look sleek under the best of circumstances, but give it even ten minutes in bed, and it was more likely to resemble a demented form of bed head. Not the sexy kind. I wasn't that lucky.
"There's no sign of Chris Crawford in the building," Detective Butler said, pulling me away from the nightmare of my appearance back to the real nightmare.
I sagged against the car with relief. Chris wasn't here. My mind wrapped itself around this new information as I stared at the patchy white paint covering the front of the building, the front of Chris's dream. "Then why would he ask me to come here?"
I hadn't realized I'd asked the question out loud until Detective Butler responded, "That's a very good question, ma'am."
The implication of his words pushed through my confusion. "What do you mean, that's a very good question. You can't think that Chris…" I trailed off and gestured toward the building.
"I'd like to ask you a few questions," Detective Butler said, all business. "Let's go inside."
I took a step back, my pulse quickening. I shook my head, and my breath snagged in my throat.
Detective Butler looked perturbed by my hesitation. "The paramedics have already left with the body," he said.
"I can't go back in there. I won't," I whispered.
"It's too cold to stand out here and talk," Detective Butler reasoned.
"We can talk in the car," I said as I gestured toward the car that was still running, the heat warming my back through the open car door.
Detective Butler pulled a slow breath in through his nose, letting it out just as slowly. "We're not going to have this conversation in the cruiser. I'd rather not have to take you down to the station." He took a step toward me. "Is that what we need to do? Have a formal interview at the station?" he asked.
The shift from concern to hostility wasn't lost on me. I planted my hands on my hips as I said, "Are you saying if I don't go back in there, you're going to arrest me?"
He huffed out an irritated breath. "I'm not going to arrest you." He quirked an eyebrow. "Unless I find reason to," he said.
I pulled myself up to my full five-foot-four-inch height. "There's no reason you should arrest me. I'm the one who called the police," I snapped.
"The first thing they teach you in detective training—the person who called it in is suspect number one," he said. Did I detect the hint of a threat in his tone?
"You've…I mean…what?" I tucked my hands up under my armpits but resisted the urge to stomp my feet against the cold. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. "You've got to be kidding me. I'm trying to help. Justin was a friend. We weren't close, but we went to high school together. I care about what happened to him. I certainly didn't murder him. I don't have any reason to murder him. I don't have any reason to murder anyone." I scuffed my boot into a chunk of dirty snow. "Except maybe you," I muttered.
"Are you done?" He sounded annoyed, but when I looked up, a hint of a smile played at the corner of his lips before his face reset into a mask of professionalism.
"I'm done," I said reluctantly. I didn't want to be done with my little tantrum, but it was clear it wasn't getting me anywhere with this man.
"Can we please we go inside? I don't know about you, but I'm freezing," he said, his tone back to one of concern.
I didn't want to go back in there, but I couldn't ignore the fact that my toes and fingers were growing numb. I headed toward the door, leaving Detective Butler to trail after me.
Inside was a flurry of activity as officers gathered evidence. Where Justin's body once lay, a brown stain marred the unfinished concrete. Yellow police tape stretched from the scaffolding to a bench a few feet away before cutting back across the space to form a triangle of protection around the area where Justin had lost his life. I flicked my gaze away and headed in the opposite direction. The sooner we got this over with, the sooner I could get out of here.
I crossed to a card table, pulled out a chair that would keep my back to the room, and dropped into it, waiting silently as Detective Butler set a small tape recorder next to a yellow legal pad on the table. "Do I have your permission to record this conversation?" he asked.
"Yeah, fine, whatever," I said as I pulled the purple stocking cap off my head and ran my fingers through my hair, feeling the tangles I hadn't taken the time to brush out before rushing over here. I shifted and caught a glimpse of myself in the window behind Detective Butler. My hair frizzed out on one side like I'd stuck my finger in a light socket. The other side? Plastered down flat. No fixing it now. I shoved the hat back on my head.
"Now, Ms. Stevens, is it?" Detective Butler asked.
"Gwen Stevens," I said.
He made a note on the legal pad. "That's your full, legal name?"
I gritted my teeth. If Detective Butler stayed in Star Junction long enough, he'd learn my full name. "Gwen is short for Guinevere," I answered reluctantly. I spelled it out for him. Most people got it wrong. I'd been the last kindergartener to be able to spell my own full name. It was one of many reasons I stuck with Gwen.
Detective Butler wrote something else down before saying, "Please tell me how you ended up here this morning."
I took a steadying breath. "I got a text from my friend Chris. He owns this place. He told me there was an emergency and asked me to come," I said.
"And when was that?" he asked.
"Two this morning," I answered.
"You came immediately?" he asked as he jotted something down on the legal pad.
"Yes. Well, no. I was going to come, but then I got back into bed. I tried to go back to sleep, but I couldn't stop worrying about what the big emergency was, so I got back out of bed, and then I came here," I explained.
Detective Butler looked up from his notes, clearly confused by my choppy timeline. "You got back into bed?" he asked.
I sighed and said, "I had dinner with my friend Penny last night, and she was saying—" I cut myself off. I didn't know this man. I studied him from across the table. He sat ramrod straight, dressed more for a boardroom than a small-town crime scene.
He tapped his pen against his notepad, waiting for me to continue. Babbling anxiously was not going to help my credibility. He didn't need to know about my efforts to end my hopeless crush on Chris. "It doesn't matter what Penny said," I finally continued. "Basically, I decided I didn't need to run out at two in the morning, but then I thought what if something was really wrong? I'd never forgive myself."
He made another note and said, "We'll need your phone to get the meta-data about Mr. Crawford's communication with you. We'll get it back to you within a few days."
I clutched at the pocket of my sweater where my phone was safely in my possession. "I need my phone. The ordering software for the store is on there. Phone calls from customers get routed to my number when my parents are out of town. My whole life is on this phone," I argued.
"It wasn't a request," he said firmly. "I'll get the phone back to you as soon as possible."
I put on my best don't mess with me face, trying to channel Penny's teacher-energy. "That's not acceptable." I tightened my grip on my phone. All those late nights watching Law & Order reruns was about to come in handy. "Unless you have a warrant, I'm keeping my phone," I said resolutely.
Detective Butler's chest heaved with a frustrated sigh, but instead of arguing with me, he said, "Tell me more about why you need this phone."
"My family owns the flower shop on Main Street. Camelot Flowers. As I mentioned, we run much of the store from software on my phone," I said. We also had an iPad in the store, but I wasn't about to volunteer that information. I wanted to keep my phone.
Detective Butler was jotting a note on his legal pad when he froze. It was happening. He was putting it together. "The flower shop is called Camelot Flowers?"
"Yep," I said simply. I wasn't about to fill in the blanks for him.
"And your name is Guinevere?" he asked slowly.
"Also correct," I said.
He held my gaze for a beat before returning to his notes.
While I hadn't wanted to make the connection for him, I felt the need to explain now that he'd made it. "My dad's really into LARPing, renaissance fairs, really anything connected to King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table."
"LARPing?" he asked, looking up from his notes, clearly confused.
"Live action role playing," I explained, my tone somehow strained and patient at the same time. It wasn't that I was embarrassed by my dad's hobby, although hobby might be too polite of a word. More like obsession. What I didn't love was the need my dad had felt to name his only child Guinevere. I had no doubt that if I'd been born a boy, Detective Butler would be talking to Lancelot right now.
The door banged open, and I yelped, clutching my chest. Hundreds of years ago, I'd have been clutching my pearls or complaining of having the vapors. What was it with people barging into this building and scaring me half to death?
"Sorry about that." An officer with a beer belly hanging over his utility belt carrying a large box kicked the door closed behind him as he apologized.
I willed my heart to slow down, but it wasn't working. Maybe I needed to work out more.
"You okay?" Detective Butler asked. He was back to concerned. I'd take that over annoyed any day. And he hadn't made fun of my name. He'd earned a check in the nice column.
"Just a little jumpy," I explained.
"That's understandable. You've been through a lot this morning," he said, his tone kind.
More niceness.
"A phone number where I can reach you if more questions arise?" He wrote something else down while he waited for me to answer.
I rattled off my phone number as I leaned forward, attempting to see what he was writing, but he angled the pad away from me. Annoying. I tugged the edges of my bulky sweater together over my chest, once again keenly aware of how ridiculous I looked. I should've stopped to put the jeans on. Or brushed my hair.
He stretched out his hand and said, "Your phone?"
How did he expect to use that phone number to reach me if I didn't have a phone? If mentioning his need for a warrant, which I wasn't even sure was true, hadn't stopped him from asking for my phone, nothing was going to. I reached into the pocket of my sweater, grumbling about police brutality. He didn't look amused. "Don't lose it. Or break it," I said firmly.
He looked down at the phone, the shattered screen protector still in place. "How would I know if it was broken?" he asked, his tone teasing.
I just barely restrained myself from sticking my tongue out at the man. Instead I said, "I dropped it when I found Justin's body. Forgive me for having a human reaction to murder."
I didn't know if his change of heart was because of the reminder of the ordeal I'd been through or not, but he said, "If you'll unlock the phone for me, I'll verify the time the text came in. Then you can have it back. If we need it again, I can let you know."
I perked up at that. "That's the first good news I've heard all night," I exclaimed as I unlocked the phone. Detective Butler spent a minute finding what he needed, took some photos with a small camera, and returned it to me.
I shoved it back into the pocket of my sweater as Tommy jogged over. He leaned down and whispered something to Detective Butler, who leaned back in his chair and studied the ceiling. I quirked an eyebrow at Tommy, who simply shrugged. Detective Butler sat back up and said, "Leave someone there in case he returns."
"Sure thing, boss," Tommy said before jogging toward the door, clearly eager to please.
"You're his boss?" I asked.
The only boss I knew of at the police station was Stan MacNamara, or Uncle Stan as I called him. Not my real uncle, but he was my godfather, my dad's best friend, and an uncle in every important sense of the word.
Detective Butler shrugged. "I report to the police chief. The officers report to me."
"The police chief is good friends with my dad," I said lightly. I wasn't above using a little nepotism if it was going to help me get more information from him about the investigation.
"Of course he is," Detective Butler grumbled under his breath.
"What's that supposed to mean?" I said suspiciously.
Detective Butler scribbled something in his notes and answered without looking up. "It means I've only been in town a week, and I've already learned everyone is either related to or best friends with everyone else."
I batted my eyelashes and said, "It's one of Star Junction's many charms."
"It's something," he muttered. "Let's get back to the case."
"You know my full, legal name. How about you, Detective Butler?"
"How about me, what?" he asked. His question sounded genuine, but there was no way he didn't know what I meant.
"What's your full, legal name?"
"I don't see how that's relevant," he said dismissively.
"It's relevant because it's only fair," I challenged.
He looked at me appraisingly, as if deciding whether or not to answer my question. He twirled the pen in his hand, his gaze never leaving mine. He finally answered, "It's Finn. Finn Butler."
I had a strong feeling he was holding something back. "If I saw your driver's license, would it say Finn Butler?"
I was very familiar with nicknames. Guinevere provided a few options. While almost everyone called me Gwen now, I'd been Gwennie for years as a child. Then there was an embarrassing two months in seventh grade when I insisted everyone call me Gwenna. It had seemed cool at the time. Boy, was I glad that hadn't stuck.
Detective Butler's gaze shifted behind me at the officers still moving around the scene before returning to meet mine. "What Finn is short for is irrelevant to this conversation," he said.
My smile widened. "A challenge. I like a challenge. I'll figure it out," I promised.
He folded his hands on the table. "Knock yourself out, Gwen." A flash of amusement sparked in his eyes.
"Give me time, Finn," I shot back.
Our gazes held before Finn, breaking the fragile moment, crossed his arms and looked down to study his notes. Back to business.
Back to business and back to reality. "I'm worried about Chris," I said. "He's not here, but he clearly asked me to meet him here."
"I've got officers looking for him," Finn said casually. "He'll be very safe down at the station."
"Down at the station?" I yelled. The few people left in the room stopped what they were doing and stared. "You're arresting him?"
Detective Butler appeared unfazed by my outburst. "I'm bringing him in for questioning," he said.
"But, but…" I sputtered.
"Gwen." He sighed. Again. He seemed to sigh a lot in my presence. "I'm just doing my job." He ticked off the points on his fingers. "Mr. Crawford's text puts him at the scene of the crime. You show up to find a dead body." He looked me up and down. "Unless I'm mistaken, you don't have the physical strength to shove a screwdriver up to the hilt into the victim's chest."
I flinched at his callused description of what had happened to someone I'd known my whole life.
He continued, "Reports are Mr. Hunt ran into a local restaurant last night looking for Mr. Crawford, and he was quite angry."
"How do you already know that?" I waved my hands through the air. "You just got here."
"One of the officers told me. I was on the scene for thirty minutes before waking you," he explained.
My cheeks flooded with heat. How many officers had walked past the car while I slept? Had I snored? Drooled? I'd just pretend I'd looked like Sleeping Beauty. I had to. The delusion was the only way I'd survive the embarrassment.
Finn raised his eyebrows and said, "I also heard you were at the restaurant when the victim showed up, and he seemed to think you might know where he could find Chris."
Shoot. It wasn't like I was trying to hide the fact, but maybe I hadn't been about to volunteer the information, but Justin demanding I tell him where to find Chris pretty much ensured everyone at Bucky's had noticed I was there.
"I was having dinner with a friend," I offered as a way of explanation.
The severity of the situation hit me all at once. I knew Chris better than I knew anyone. There was no way he would murder someone, but it wasn't looking good. I shoved my hands into the pockets of my sweater. "I'm tired. Can I go?" I asked.
Finn looked over his notes before meeting my gaze and saying, "I have a few more questions. Can you do five more minutes?"
"What else do you need to know?" I said wearily.
True to his word, we spent five minutes walking through exactly what I'd done, what I'd seen, and what I'd touched since entering the building. Once we finished, I trudged to my car, started the engine, and pulled out of the parking lot.
How had this happened? Justin was dead. The police were looking for Chris. Chris had texted me to meet him at the center, but he'd never responded to my text about Justin showing up at Bucky's. What was going on with him?
At least I could tell Penny I'd met the new police detective. Not exactly what she had in mind when she'd suggested he might be cute enough to date. I wouldn't deny he was classically handsome. Strong jaw, wide shoulders. He was like Superman. The Clark Kent version, minus the glasses, plus a beard. Kind and caring one minute, impatient and frustrated the next. I was too exhausted to figure him out.
I pulled into my driveway and stared at my small white house with navy blue shutters. Snow lay in fluffy piles around the bushes lining the bottom of the large picture window. The lamp I always left on in the living room glowed through the curtains. The house looked all tucked in for winter. That's what I needed. Sleep first, and then I was going to figure out who killed Justin, because I knew one thing for certain—it wasn't Chris.