Chapter 8
Chapter 8
The small windowless interview room was a time warp. It took a while to shake off Flint’s visit, but once Daphne started losing herself in numbers again, the hours passed without her noticing. By the time she came up for air that evening, there’d been a shift change and the sky was dark outside. Considering it got dark around four thirty in the afternoon, that in itself didn’t mean as much as the new faces milling around the building. With her jacket unzipped and her purse slung over her shoulder, she shuffled to the front doors on stiff legs.
Lights were on in the sheriff’s office. Through the open door, Daphne could see him at his desk. Flint frowned at his computer screen, pecking at the keyboard with his index fingers like he’d never used a keyboard in his life. He looked up when she poked her head in.
“I hadn’t realized you were still here,” he said.
“I was just about to say the same thing.”
“Paperwork from this morning,” he grumbled, shoving the keyboard away. “You make any discoveries this afternoon?”
“Well, actually ...” Daphne hesitated. She hadn’t made a discovery, exactly, but some of the invoices from the renovation were weird.
He arched his brows. “Is that a yes?”
“It’s just strange, is all. Some of the invoices for the work on the extension out back were fully paid in advance. I walked through the area, and it still looks like a building site. I don’t understand why the contractor would have been paid when the work was never completed. It’s possible the funds were recovered later, but I haven’t been able to find any evidence of it if so.”
“Hmm.” Flint frowned and rubbed his jaw. “I haven’t heard of any lawsuits or attempts to recover any money. Shirley just said the whole thing fell apart because of personal disputes between the contractor and the former sheriff, and it was never finished. It is weird that they would’ve been paid in full.”
“Right?”
“You got the contractor’s name?”
“Jerry Barela of Barela Contracting.”
Flint nodded. “He’s got an office here in town. We’ll go talk to him tomorrow.”
Daphne blinked. “‘We’? As in, you and me?”
“You’re the one with the information. You might as well be there to ask the questions.”
“Oh. Okay.”
A slow smile spread on the sheriff’s lips. It looked wicked and teasing, and it made a strange sensation tighten in Daphne’s gut. “You nervous, Cupcake?”
Straightening her shoulders, she glared. “Of course not. I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night.” Whirling on her heels, she strode out of the station without looking back. It was a short walk to her apartment, where she didn’t even bother heading upstairs before jumping in her car and heading to the north of the island, where her parents lived. She’d be late for dinner, but she wanted to check on her grandmother. If that took her far away from a certain sheriff, well, that was just an added bonus.
Grandma Mabel was completely fine, basking in the fame generated by her accident. She sat in an armchair in the living room with a drink in one hand and her phone in the other, regaling whoever was on the line with a play-by-play of the events.
Daphne waved at her and wandered into the kitchen, where she found her father cleaning up the dishes from dinner. “Hey, Dad.”
“Daphne! I left your plate in the oven.”
“Ooh! Shepherd’s pie. Yum.”
“Seemed like a day for comfort food,” Claude replied, scrubbing a saucepan. “Heard you took a beating today. Another beating.” He gave her a significant look.
“I wouldn’t say it was a beating. I got tackled. I’m fine.”
“Your grandmother’s been fabricating details in every retelling, then. To hear her talk about it, you went toe to toe with a pro boxer.”
Daphne groaned as she pulled her plate from the oven. “I’ll never hear the end of it.” She tucked in to the dinner and let out a long sigh. Even though she’d never exactly felt like she fit in with her own family, it still felt good to be able to sit in the kitchen at their old wooden table and eat a home-cooked meal. Her dad was a great cook.
“Did you know Grandma used to bake bread?” she asked.
Her father leaned against the edge of the sink as he dried the saucepan. “Mabel? Of course. She’s the one who got me hooked.”
“She told me she stopped when her favorite pot got stolen.”
A rough grunt escaped her father’s lips as he nodded. He put the saucepan away and grabbed a handful of utensils to dry. “That was a whole drama. Brenda Sallow. They used to play nice, but they hated each other. Brenda denied ever taking the pot, but everyone knew.”
“And Grandma never tried to get it back?”
“Oh, she tried! Of course she tried. But Brenda must have hidden it anytime they went over, and when she found your grandmother snooping through her cupboards, Brenda kicked her out, and that was the end of that.”
“What was so special about the pot?”
Claude let out a little puff of breath and shrugged. “It was Mabel’s mother’s. A family heirloom, I guess you could say. And it did make good bread. Perfect crust every time. I bought her a new one a year or so later, but she told me to keep it. Had no interest in bread.”
“That was it. No more baking for Grandma.”
Claude nodded and put the silverware away while Daphne ate her dinner. It was petty and absurd to give up a hobby because of one stolen pot, but Daphne could understand it. Her family was full of stubborn, righteous people.
Daphne was the one who’d always been willing to bend. She compromised for the sake of peace and stability. If her precious heirloom pot had been stolen, she probably would have tried to reason her way into getting it back, then just let it drop and bought a new one. She would’ve folded.
When her father sat across from her, Daphne looked up.
“How are you doing?” he asked quietly.
“I’m good. Work’s good. I like my apartment.”
He gave her a look like he knew she was full of shit. “I mean how are you , Daphne. You haven’t talked about Pete at all. Or how it feels to be back here.”
Even now, after all these months, her ex-fiancé’s name still made her shoulders stiffen.
“It’s been nearly two years, Dad. What’s there to talk about?”
“You didn’t even mention it when it happened. We wouldn’t have found out if Ellie hadn’t gone to stay with you.”
“It” being Pete deciding that he didn’t love her anymore. That she wasn’t exciting enough. That he’d never seen himself with a boring accountant like her for a wife.
“It was a breakup,” she said, pushing the last of her food around her plate. “It sucked, and I got over it. He’s seeing someone new now.”
She’d blocked him on social media after they’d parted ways, of course, but there had been moments of weakness in the months that had passed. She knew he had a girlfriend, and they’d moved in together recently. The girlfriend was beautiful. They’d been skydiving together.
“Hmm,” her dad replied.
“It’s like Grandma with the pot,” Daphne explained. “The pot’s gone now. It’s done. Like that relationship.”
“So you’re never going to date again?” He arched his brows. “Like your grandmother and her favorite hobby?”
“Of course I’ll date again. Just ... not right now. I need to focus on work.”
Besides, who would she date? Who would be interested in a dull woman with a dull job who never took any risks? Even the thought of going to talk to a contractor about her very reasonable questions made her nervous. What kind of man would stick around when she was utterly devoid of any kind of bravery?
“Your face is looking better,” her dad said, nodding to the black eyes.
“Yeah, putrid green and yellow are my colors. The touch of dark purple really brings out my eyes.”
He laughed and shook his head, then turned when Grandma Mabel ambled through the doorway. She slid into the seat next to Daphne’s and bumped her shoulder against her granddaughter’s.
“We’re famous, Daphne. Between your run-in with that Lane boy at the Winter Market, your sister’s heroics a year and a half ago, and my near miss with that maniac in the truck, we’ll never have to buy our own drinks again.”
The older woman’s words made Daphne’s throat tighten. She’d never been lumped in the same category as the rest of her family before.
Maybe there was a drop of bravery in her, after all.
The next morning, Daphne sat behind her desk and gathered all the relevant invoices she needed to talk to Jerry Barela about the work he’d done on the station’s unfinished construction work. She was reviewing her list of questions when her doorway darkened.
“Ready?” Flint asked. He wore his perfectly pressed uniform and a pair of very shiny black shoes. His dark hair was combed back from his forehead. He always looked immaculate, she noticed. She wondered why he kept himself buttoned up so tightly.
Today, there was a wicked sparkle in his eyes.
It was a challenge. And for once, Daphne didn’t feel the need to back down. She closed the manila folder over her gathered invoices and notes and slid it into her bag. “Lead the way, Sheriff.”
When they got to his truck, Daphne slid into the passenger seat and buckled herself in. She took a deep breath. “How are we going to approach this?” she asked as Flint turned the key in the ignition.
He glanced over. “We’ll just ask him some questions and see what he says.”
That was vague and utterly unhelpful. Daphne rolled her eyes. “You want to take the lead? I can go over the invoices with you now.”
The sheriff leaned a forearm on the steering wheel as he turned to look at her, his eyes narrowed. Firm lips pressed into a line, he tilted his head. “You’re more than capable, Cupcake.”
“Will you stop calling me that? I hated it in high school, and I hate it now.”
“That’s what makes it fun.” His lips curled as he put the truck in gear, and they headed toward the other side of town.
The truth was, Daphne didn’t hate the nickname as much as she had the first time he’d said it. Besides, he was giving her a vote of confidence. Most people would expect her to crumple and scurry back to her books. Flint didn’t seem to consider that an option.
It felt ... good, Daphne decided. It made her heart beat a little bit harder and her palms grow damp, but she liked that he believed in her. Not many people did, except with things like accounting and to-do lists. She took a deep breath and watched the buildings go by while she got used to the feeling of Flint’s confidence in her.
Carlisle was the only town on Fernley Island, and the location of the island’s ferry terminal. The town was built on a gentle slope, so most of the residences had a view of the water. The sheriff’s department was near the top of the slope, just down the street from the medical center, so they turned onto one of the main arteries leading down toward the water, then turned right to head toward the industrial side of town.
They left quaint shops and artisanal bakeries behind as they drove toward their destination. They passed workshops and warehouses, along with equipment-rental yards and a few smaller businesses. Barela Contracting was located beside a glassblowers’ workshop, with a big yard full of stacked lumber and machinery behind the construction office’s main building.
Flint parked the car in the front lot, and they got out. Daphne took a deep breath, reached into her bag to make sure the manila folder was where she’d put it, and followed the sheriff inside.
He believed she could do this. Now she just had to convince herself of the same thing.