CHAPTER EIGHT
I pulled into the parking lot of the grocery store the next morning, driving cautiously. A cycle of snow—melting and freezing—had plagued Star Junction since Christmas. The city had done its best to stay on top of the ice, but some of the sidewalks and parking lots were like skating rinks.
I would've preferred to stay home, nice and cozy by the fire, before heading to Camelot Flowers to have the shop opened by ten, but I couldn't ignore the fact that the pie social was tonight, and not only did I have no pie, but I didn't even have enough food in my house to make one.
I usually rushed into the pie social with a store-bought pie, much to the chagrin of my mother, who'd never bought a pie from a store in her life. Figuring out who killed Justin was going to take some time and effort, but baking a pie from scratch? I could do that. Right?
Pinterest had been my salvation, and the list of ingredients I needed for my lemon blueberry swirl cheesecake was tucked in my purse. While not technically a pie, it looked delicious and seemed like an elevated version of the cheesecake my grandma used to make every fourth of July. I didn't think anyone would object to having a taste of summer in the middle of winter.
I grabbed my purse and shoved a wool hat on my head before ducking my chin against the icy wind and hurrying toward the entrance of the store. If it was going to warm up today like the weather app predicted, it hadn't started yet.
Choosing a cart, I headed toward the baking aisle, sending up a silent prayer I'd make it through this trip without having to recount the events of finding Justin's body. Gossip was practically an Olympic sport in Star Junction, and securing the story directly from the source was like winning a gold medal.
Passing the cereal aisle, I pulled up short at the sight of Samantha Weston, Justin's girlfriend. Or, if the rumors were true, ex-girlfriend. She was standing in front of the Fruity Pebbles, but it was clear from the look on her face that she was mentally somewhere else.
While I was frozen with indecision, she pulled in a shaky breath and headed in the other direction. This was my chance. I pushed my cart forward. If I could "bump" into her, I'd have a chance to ask her about Justin.
She skipped the baking aisle, and so did I. When she turned down the next aisle, I mimicked her movements, until we were on a collision course. Metaphorically of course. Our carts approached each other near the canned soups, and I put on my best shocked impression when I said, "Samantha?"
She glanced in my direction blankly for a moment before recognition dawned on her face. "Hey, Gwen," she said glumly. Her bleach-blonde hair hung limp around her face like she hadn't washed it in several days. Dark circles rimmed the bottom of her blue eyes. She sniffed, wiping her button nose with the back of her hand.
"How are you doing?" I asked.
Samantha sniffed as if holding back tears and said, "It's been a rough week."
I scooted my cart over so we weren't blocking the aisle, although we were mercifully alone for the moment. "I'm sure it's been tough," I said in agreement.
This brought on a fresh wave of tears. I awkwardly patted Samantha's shoulder as she snuffled into her hands, her hair covering her face. I rooted around in my purse, came up with a napkin from the coffee shop in town, and handed it to her.
"Thanks," Samantha said as she took a shaky breath and pressed the palms of her hands over her eyes for a moment like she was plugging a leaking faucet. She gave me a wan smile. "Justin's mom called to ask some questions about a memorial service. The police still have his body." The tears started again. "But you don't need a body for a memorial service," she finally managed as she wiped her nose with the napkin.
I stood in silence, dying to ask questions that might help Chris but not wanting to be insensitive.
"I'm sorry you had to be the one to find him," Samantha said, breaking the silence. "I can't… I can't believe…" I braced myself for more tears, but Samantha took a shaky breath and continued, "I can't believe he's really dead."
"Stuff like this doesn't happen in Star Junction," I said. "At least not to people we know." It was time to take a risk and ask her some questions. Better than having to track her down later. "I'm trying to help Chris," I started. "The police have pretty much decided he's guilty, but I can't believe he did it. Plus, he says he's innocent." I looked down at my hands. "How many murders can the police here have investigated? I'm worried they'll get it wrong."
Samantha reached out and squeezed my hand. "I can't believe Chris would do anything to hurt Justin. Or anyone," she added.
You should be the one comforting her, blared through my mind like a siren. For all my bluster at dinner the night before, I was flying blind in this investigation. Navigating the line between helping Chris and not hurting people close to Justin might be harder than I thought.
"But that new detective is from Chicago," Samantha continued. "I'm sure he's investigated murders before. The police will figure this out."
I met Samantha's gaze, her eyes red and puffy from crying. "He's from Chicago?" I asked.
Samantha shrugged and said, "That's what I heard. Hey, I better get going. I told Justin's mom I'd drop off some pictures she could use for the service. That's why I was here. I was getting them printed. Who prints pictures anymore?" She let out a shaky laugh. "I don't even know how I ended up by the soup."
"Grief is a funny thing," I said. After my dad's heart attack five years ago, I'd wandered all sorts of places, my brain turning off as if trying to escape the worry and sadness. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."
"Thanks," she said sweetly.
I pushed my cart forward to give Samantha room to leave but paused and said, "Can I ask you one more question? It's kind of personal."
Samantha's eyes widened slightly, as if taken aback by my request. "Uh, okay."
I rushed on before I could lose my nerve. "It's just that I heard you and Justin broke up last week, and I was wondering if it was true." I held my breath. Was I being a jerk?
Samantha stared across the aisle at the shelf of pasta sauce. A single tear snaked down her cheek. "It's true," she finally said, her voice not much more than a whisper. "I loved him. Very much. But I found out last week he was cheating on me with some girl from Rose Lake." She hung her head and picked at the edge of her fingernail. Her next statement was so soft I almost missed it. "The same person who told me about the cheating told me the other girl might be pregnant."
"The same person? Like a friend of yours?" I asked, itching to add another source to my list.
Samantha shook her head and said, "Someone random contacted me on Instagram. The account is clearly fake, because there are no pictures on it, but they knew enough about Justin for me to believe them."
Samantha picked up a can of chicken noodle soup and added it to her cart without even looking at it before adding, "When I asked Justin about it, he didn't deny it, but he didn't say it was true either. That was the last straw. I broke up with him Tuesday." Her gaze grew distant. "I didn't talk to him again. The last thing I said to him was that he was an awful human being." Her eyes flooded with tears again.
My mind was going a million miles a minute trying to figure out how to find out who told Samantha about the affair, but I couldn't ignore her suffering. I pulled her into a hug, patting her on the back as she sniffled away.
My mom once told me that when someone is suffering, you let them end the hug, so I held on to Samantha for what felt like forever as she cried. Finally, she pulled away and asked, "I shouldn't have said Justin was an awful human being. Am I a bad person?"
"No way," I said, adamantly. "You couldn't have known Justin would end up murdered just days later, and if he really cheated, then he did do an awful thing." I made a mental note to tell Finn about what Samantha shared if I ended up running into a dead end trying to find out who sent the message on Instagram. The police might have better luck than I would. It didn't mean I wouldn't try. "Do the police know this?" I asked Samantha.
"I assume they do," she said. "Seems the whole town knows we broke up."
"Not about you guys breaking up," I clarified. "I mean, did you tell the police about the affair? The possible pregnancy?"
Samantha reared back as if I'd struck her and said, "No. Why would I do that? It's embarrassing."
"But it could be another motive for murder," I said.
"Are you saying I have a motive to murder Justin?" she practically shouted.
"No, that's not what I'm saying at all." I reached out a hand reassuringly, but Samantha flinched out of reach. "But maybe the other girl had a boyfriend who got jealous," I added.
"Why are you being so mean to me?" Samantha said right before she burst into tears again.
My gaze darted to the ends of the aisle. This was turning into a scene, which is the last thing I wanted. "I'm sorry. I'm sure it's nothing." I reached over and gave Samantha one more pat on the back before she stomped toward the front of the store.
I hurried through the store to find the rest of the items on my list, pondering Samantha's words. Pulling out my phone, I added, Baby? to the line about Justin cheating. Being cheated on could lead to all sorts of feelings, including the desire to murder the no-good boyfriend, but finding out there was a baby? That had to cut even deeper.
Finn was convinced a woman couldn't have committed the crime, but accounts of moms lifting cars off their trapped kids argued differently. Adrenaline could make people strong enough to do all sorts of things, even commit murder.
An hour later, I dropped my bags on the kitchen counter. Before I could make it out of the store, I'd been stopped four times by people who wanted to express their concern about how I'd been the one to find "poor Justin" and twice more by people who had their own theories about who had murdered him.
The theories were wild, including a gang from Chicago driving the two hours from the city to murder Justin. When I'd asked why some random gang would do that, the person had just shrugged and said, "That's what I heard," before walking off.
Even if I wanted to stop investigating, it wouldn't stop people from talking to me about what had happened. I couldn't help it if people shared things with me. I tucked that little argument away in case Finn found out I was investigating. I had a feeling he'd want me as far away from this investigation as possible.
I got the groceries put away and set out to make the cheesecake, thinking about the timeline of my day. I had to open the shop at ten, but it was only eight. The recipe indicated I could get the pie done within an hour. I looked over the list of things to follow up on about the investigation. Bring Mrs. Hunt flowers caught my eye.
If I hurried, I'd have time to swing by the shop, grab a bouquet, and pay Mrs. Hunt a visit before I had to open. Besides feeling like the right thing to do, she might know something about Justin's life that I didn't.
I sent a quick text to my mom saying, How's the weather in Florida? We're looking at another hard freeze tonight. You picked a good time to head south. Can I get Mrs. Hunt's phone number? I want to take her flowers.
When I didn't see the little bubbles indicating my mom was writing back right away, I turned on some music and lined up the ingredients on the counter. I was halfway through belting the lyrics of "Jailhouse Rock," an ironic song to come through my streaming service considering the mess with Chris, when the music stopped, interrupted by a text alert.
I wiped my dirty hands on a dish towel before unlocking the phone to read the text. My mom had written back, That's a lovely idea, Gwen. So thoughtful. I've attached her contact info. Your dad says hi. We're heading to ride bikes on the beach path. Let me know how it goes with Justin's mom. I can't stop thinking about that poor boy.
Thanks, Mom, I wrote back. I'm jealous of your bike ride by the beach. Send us some sunshine. Love you.
A text saying she loved me too and sunshine was on the way came through as I dialed Mrs. Hunt's number.
The call connected, and a woman said, "Hello?" Her voice sounded hollow and weak.
"Mrs. Hunt? This is Gwen Stevens," I said. "I wanted to say how sorry I am about Justin and see if I could drop off some flowers later this morning. Maybe around nine thirty?"
I heard quiet crying on the other end of the phone.
My heart broke for her. "I'm so sorry about Justin," I said again.
"Thank you," she said, her voice teary. "Nine thirty would be perfect. I'll look forward to it."
I ran my finger along the edge of a stain on my old kitchen table as we said our goodbyes. I scanned the mess on my kitchen counter and turned on a podcast, not in the mood to listen to music after hearing the grief in Mrs. Hunt's voice. Maybe my visit would give Mrs. Hunt some peace. Who knew? Maybe it could give me some answers too.
* * *
Precisely at nine thirty, I parked in front of the two-story brick colonial where Justin had grown up. A dried-out Christmas wreath still hung on the door. Although Justin and I hadn't been particularly close, I'd spent most of my teen years across the street at Chris's house. Chris and Justin's friendship had started the day Chris's family moved in.
The memory of simpler times tightened my throat with unshed tears. I checked my reflection in the mirror on the visor. "You can do this," I said to my reflection.
Hopefully I was right. I'd put together a bouquet with flowers in shades of purples, hoping they'd feel cheery in light of her tragic loss. I rang the doorbell, the dulcet tones barely audible through the bright-red door. I glanced over my shoulder as I waited for someone to answer. New owners had repainted the house Chris grew up in a deep navy blue, but they'd left the porch and front steps a brilliant white.
I flashed back to summer nights sitting on those front steps, talking, laughing, looking for shooting stars. Chris's arm would brush against mine as he pointed out the different constellations. Things had been easier back then.
My wistful thoughts were interrupted by the click of a deadbolt. Mrs. Hunt answered the door, dressed in jeans and a thick red sweater decorated with Scandinavian designs stitched in white. She smiled, but her bloodshot eyes and blotchy skin told of recent tears. She gripped a crumpled tissue in her hand. "Thank you so much for coming. Come on in. It's cold today," she said.
She backed up, and I stepped into the large foyer. A formal living room sat in darkness to my right. I wiped my feet on the mat, and we stood staring at each other for a moment.
"I thought we'd chat in the kitchen. It's cozy with the fireplace this time of year," said Mrs. Hunt, ever the hostess, even under these circumstances.
I extended the bouquet. "I know this does nothing to replace what you've lost, but I wanted to create something special for you," I said as I handed her the flowers.
She took them, bringing them to her nose. A ghost of a smile graced her lips. "They're just beautiful," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "Purple is my favorite color."
I'd had no idea, but my mom always said I had a knack for knowing what kind of flowers or plants a person needed. She called it magic. I called it coincidence, but I was happy the magic had surfaced this time.
Mrs. Hunt turned, and I followed her down the hall toward the back of the house. Pictures of Justin covered the wall of the short hallway. Justin as a baby, Justin without his two front teeth, Justin with his older sister, and Justin standing in a graduation cap and gown with his parents as they beamed at the camera. It was a potent reminder of why I was here.
The hallway opened into a large sunny kitchen, a fireplace in the corner warming the room. Mrs. Hunt pulled out a barstool that had been tucked under the island. "Have a seat. I have both coffee and tea. What would you like?" she asked.
I settled into the chair and removed my coat, draping it over the back. "I couldn't put you to any trouble," I said.
"Nonsense," she said firmly. "Let me do this small thing for you."
"In that case, I would love some tea," I replied.
"Coming right up." Mrs. Hunt bustled around to the other side of the island and lit the gas burner under a bright-yellow tea kettle. She pulled two cherry red mugs out of the cabinet to the right and set them down in front of me. She added a small woven basket that held a variety of tea bags and sweeteners.
"Thank you again for the flowers," she said. The kettle whistled, and she poured the hot water into the two mugs before coming around to sit on the stool next to me. "I've been so lonely rattling around the house during the day. It's nice to have some company."
I looked through the tea bags and chose a vanilla spice black tea. I ripped open the foil packet and dropped the tea bag into the steaming water. "Where's Mr. Hunt?" I asked.
"Oh, he's been busy at work this week," she said. "You know men. They hide in their work when life gets stressful."
My dad wasn't like that, but I wasn't about to contradict Mrs. Hunt.
She fiddled with her mug, turning the handle side to side. "I know you were the one…" she started.
She trailed off, but there was no doubt to what she was referring. I was the one who'd found her son dead. I dunked my tea bag up and down, watching the brown tea swirl into the hot water. "I'm so sorry." It was all I could think to say.
Mrs. Hunt blinked, and a tear escaped the corner of her eye. "I'm sorry," she said, wiping at her cheek as more tears fell. "I promised myself I wasn't going to do this. My emotions have been all over the place."
I wrapped my hands around the mug, allowing the warmth to anchor me. "Please don't apologize. I can't imagine what you're going through right now," I said compassionately.
Tears continued to slip silently down Mrs. Hunt's cheeks. "It doesn't even seem real most of the time. Justin had his issues…" She leaned forward with a small smile on her sad face. "Don't get me wrong, Justin was a great son. He was so helpful around the house. He was handsome and charming. Everyone loved him. I don't understand how this happened." The tears fell faster as she took a shaky sip of her tea.
"I can't believe this happened either. I can't believe it happened to Justin. I can't believe it happened in Star Junction," I said.
Mrs. Hunt looked down at her tea and shook her head. "What is this world coming to?" she asked quietly.
There was no good answer to that question.
Mrs. Hunt slowly lifted her head and met my gaze. "Who could've done this? Who would've wanted to hurt my Justin?" she asked.
I wished for a magic wand. I wished I could go back to Saturday when Mrs. Hunt was a happy mother and the biggest thing I had to worry about was when I was going to find time to go grocery shopping.
But I didn't have a magic wand. All I had was the opportunity to find some answers for Mrs. Hunt, and to do that, I was going to have to ask some uncomfortable questions. "I'm sure you heard about Chris," I started cautiously. After the interaction with Samantha this morning, I was going to tread carefully when it came to people who loved Justin.
"Chris is like a brother to Justin," Mrs. Hunt said firmly. "There's no way he had anything to do with this."
A weight lifted off my chest. It would have broken my heart to think Mrs. Hunt suspected Chris. "You mentioned Justin was helpful around the house. Did he live here? I thought he rented a house over on Beeker," I said.
Mrs. Hunt swiveled her chair to face me and crossed one leg over the other. Despite my fears I would make Mrs. Hunt upset with my questions, she seemed eager to talk about Justin. "He moved back in about a month ago," she said. "The owners of the house he rents were doing renovations. Justin told them he'd move out for a couple months to make it easier. I loved having him here."
"What did you think when he didn't come home Saturday night?" I asked.
"Well, it wasn't that unusual." She swiped at her nose with a napkin and balled it up in her fist. "He's a grown man. He has some friends in Rose Lake he'd stay with sometimes," she said.
Could one of these "friends" be the mystery woman he was having an affair with? "Do you know those friends?" I asked. "Maybe they'd know something that could help the police."
Mrs. Hunt shook her head. "He'd say he was staying late in Rose Lake or heading over there to meet friends. I didn't ask a lot of questions. He doesn't like that." She caught herself, her eyes welling with tears again. "Didn't like that," she said, changing to the past tense.
I fiddled with my cup, not knowing what to say.
"Anyway," Mrs. Hunt continued after taking a shaky breath. "Whitney is flying in next week before the memorial service. It'll be a comfort to have her here."
Justin's older sister had gone to Harvard and stayed in Boston after graduation. She worked at some kind of biotech firm. To say the two siblings were different was the understatement of the century.
"I'm so glad she'll be here," I said.
Mrs. Hunt nodded and took another sip of her tea.
Maybe Mrs. Hunt knew something that would help the police without even knowing she knew it. "Did Justin seem worried about anything lately?" I asked.
Mrs. Hunt seemed to consider my question. "Nothing I knew about." She tapped her finger against her lower lip. "I keep thinking maybe it was a case of him being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I'll never believe Chris would hurt Justin, but he was killed in Chris's building. Maybe someone wanted to hurt Chris and got Justin by mistake," she theorized.
The thought twisted my gut. I hadn't considered Chris could've been the real target. That would change everything. The murderer would realize they got the wrong person. Chris wouldn't be safe.
But Chris and Justin looked nothing alike. With his blond hair, vivid blue eyes, and chiseled jaw line, Chris looked like a surfer from California, despite his Midwestern roots. Justin, on the other hand, was half Italian, and it showed. Dark hair that curled at the nape of his neck, olive-toned skin, dark eyes. How did I know he was Italian? Because of our family tree project in high school when Justin wouldn't shut up about going to Italy someday and meeting a hot Italian babe.
Mrs. Hunt interrupted my thoughts by saying, "I'm sure that new police detective will figure out who hurt Justin."
"Have you spoken to the new detective?" I asked. Maybe she'd learned something about Finn's investigation that would help me with my own.
"Oh yes, he was so kind. He came over yesterday and went through Justin's room," she said.
Maybe Justin's room could give me some kind of clue as to what he'd gotten himself caught up in that could've led to his death. Although if Finn had already been in there, the chances I'd find anything he hadn't already were slim. Still, it was a lead, and I couldn't pass up the opportunity.
Asking to see Justin's room felt awkward, but I decided to just go with the truth. "It feels like the new detective is set on Chris being guilty. Any chance I could look over Justin's room? Maybe I could find something the detective missed. He's not from Star Junction. He might not even know what's important," I said.
I was prepared for Mrs. Hunt to say no, but she immediately agreed. "That's a great idea. Chris's mom called me yesterday to say how sorry she is about Justin. I already lost my baby. I can't stand the thought that her son might be blamed for something he didn't do," she said.
It was one thing to ask people I knew questions about Justin's death. It felt like a whole other level to conduct a search of Justin's room. Did I need to wear gloves? My pink wool mittens wouldn't give me much dexterity. Plus, according to Mrs. Hunt, Finn had already been through the room. I couldn't mess up an investigation that had already been conducted, could I? I had no idea what I was doing, but hopefully if there was something worth finding in Justin's room, I'd know it when I saw it.