CHAPTER SEVEN
Ms. Drummond slid her glasses back onto her nose, her eyes magnified behind the lenses like a predator focused on prey. “Roger Dixon,” she said, her voice crisp as autumn frost, “told me two days ago that he was going to kill Derek Sullivan the next time he saw him.”
Jenna exchanged a quick glance with Jake. The blunt statement aligned with their purpose for being there.
“Did you take this threat seriously?” Jake asked, leaning forward in his chair.
“At the time? Not at all. Roger and Derek have been at odds for years. But in retrospect, something did feel different this time—the intensity in Roger’s voice, perhaps. The way his hands shook.”
“Where did this conversation take place?” Jenna asked.
“Outside the hardware store. I was purchasing special soil for my begonias.” Ms. Drummond gestured toward her immaculate garden visible through the office window.
“Roger was stomping out, red-faced and muttering. When I inquired about his distress—purely out of civic concern, you understand—he unleashed a torrent of profanity that would have earned any of my former students a month of detention.”
Jenna fought to keep her expression neutral. She’d seen Roger Dixon’s temper when she’d responded to complaints about his business hours sign being too “creatively” worded about what anybody could do with their complaints.
“What specifically did Roger say about Derek?” she pressed.
Ms. Drummond straightened a stack of papers that didn’t need straightening. “He said, and I quote, ‘Sullivan keyed my Mustang. I’ll wring his worthless neck the next time I see him.’“ Her lips thinned. “Crude, but unmistakable in its intent.”
“The Mustang,” Jake said. “That’s his classic Ford, right?”
“1967 Fastback. Candy Apple Red.” Ms. Drummond spoke with unexpected precision.
“Roger Dixon may be a social misfit with the personality of a wounded badger, but that car is the closest thing he has to a friend in this town. He’s spent twenty years restoring it.
I’ve heard him call it ‘the only honest thing in Trentville.’ The idea that someone would deliberately put a scratch on it. ..”
Jenna remembered the vehicle, how it gleamed even on overcast days, parked protectively behind Roger’s shop. She’d seen him out there on Sunday mornings, polishing its chrome with the tenderness most people reserved for infants.
“Is that why you went to the Centaur’s Den last night?” Jenna asked. “To confront Derek about the car?”
The corners of Ms. Drummond’s mouth tightened. “I went to hear his side of the story. Despite what some might think, I do believe in fairness.”
“And according to Aaron Hopper, you visit the Centaur’s Den from time to time,” Jake observed.
“Only to hear what people have to say there. I don’t drink.
And I rarely need to question suspects in vandalism cases, Deputy Hawkins, as that is technically your job.
” Her voice carried the same cutting edge Jenna remembered from high school.
“However, when our local law enforcement is preoccupied with...other matters, someone must step in.”
The implication—that Jenna had been neglecting her duties while searching for her sister—stung, but she pushed past it. “Tell us what happened when you found Derek.”
“He was already heavily intoxicated. Barely able to focus his eyes.” Ms. Drummond’s disgust was evident in the pinch of her nostrils. “I guided him to a booth and asked directly whether he had damaged Roger’s car.”
“And?” Jake prompted.
“Initially, he acted confused. Claimed he had no idea what I was talking about. But I extracted confessions from teenagers for many years, Deputy. I know how to wait out a lie.” A smile flickered briefly across her face.
“Alcohol loosened his tongue eventually.
He actually boasted about it, saying Roger ‘had it coming.’“
“Did he say why?” Jenna asked.
Ms. Drummond shook her head. “I tried to get him to elaborate, but he suddenly seemed to realize what he’d admitted. His demeanor changed completely—defensive, quarrelsome. He tried to walk back his confession, claimed he’d never said any such thing.”
“And then?” Jenna watched Ms. Drummond’s face carefully.
“I left. There was no point in continuing a conversation with someone in that state. I hadn’t planned to post anything on TownCircle until I could speak with Roger again. I wanted to understand what might have provoked Derek’s vandalism before going public with his admission.”
Something about Ms. Drummond’s story nagged at Jenna. The account was too neat, too perfectly constructed—like a lesson plan without room for the messiness of real human interaction.
Jenna studied the woman before her. Ms. Drummond had always been slight, but there was wiry strength in her frame, the kind built from decades of maintaining classroom discipline.
A woman who could control thirty rowdy teenagers wouldn’t need much physical strength to overpower one drunk man from behind.
“Ms. Drummond,” she said carefully, “where were you between 1:30 and 3:30 this morning?”
The change was instantaneous. Ms. Drummond went rigid, her chin lifting as if pulled by invisible strings. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s a standard question,” Jenna kept her tone neutral. “We’re asking everyone who had contact with Derek last night.”
“I was here, of course. In my bed, asleep, like any reasonable person would be at that hour.” Ms. Drummond’s voice had taken on a dangerous edge. “Though I suppose you realize no one can confirm that alibi, making me an easy target for your insinuations.”
Jake shifted uncomfortably beside Jenna. “Ma’am, no one is—”
“Twenty years,” Ms. Drummond cut him off. “That’s how long you’ve been holding grudges against me, isn’t it, Jenna? Because I gave you a B- on your senior thesis when you believed you deserved an A?”
“This isn’t personal,” Jenna replied.
“Isn’t it? Now that you’ve found your sister, you need a new project.
And what better than to humiliate the teacher who wouldn’t give you an A that you didn’t deserve?
” Ms. Drummond stood abruptly, her chair sliding back with a harsh scrape against the hardwood.
“I believe this interview is over. I’ve provided the information about Roger Dixon as a courtesy to law enforcement. What you do with it is your business.”
Jake rose first. “Thank you for your time,” he said, already edging toward the door.
“We may have additional questions,” Jenna added, unwilling to let Ms. Drummond have the final word.
“And I may choose not to answer them without my attorney present.” Ms. Drummond followed them through the dining room, her steps quick and precise. “Sheriff Graves, I suggest you focus your investigation on Roger Dixon. His temper is legendary, and his threats were explicit.”
At the front door, Ms. Drummond paused. For a moment, something flashed across her face—doubt, perhaps, or something deeper. But it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
“Be careful,” she said, her voice suddenly softer. “Rage makes people unpredictable.”
The door closed behind them with a decisive click.
Jenna stepped off Brenda Drummond’s porch, the September sun a harsh contrast to the chill that had settled in the retired teacher’s house.
She waited until they were halfway down the garden path, safely beyond the windows’ sight lines, before letting her shoulders drop from their defensive posture.
Beside her, Jake expelled a breath that suggested he’d been holding it since Ms. Drummond’s parting words.
“That was...” he started, glancing back at the yellow house.
“Exactly what I expected and somehow worse,” Jenna finished, her voice low. “Some things never change. Twenty years later and she can still make me feel sixteen and inadequate.”
Jake unlocked the car with a soft chirp. “She certainly has an agenda. Question is, was she trying to hide something by pointing us so forcefully toward Roger Dixon?”
Jenna slid into the passenger seat, grateful to let Jake drive again while her mind processed the interview. “I don’t know, but we need to talk to him. If Roger really did threaten to kill Derek over a keyed car...”
“Already mapping the route,” Jake said, tapping the GPS screen. “Dixon’s Small Engine Repair is about fifteen minutes from here.”
As they pulled away from the curb, Jenna caught a flicker of movement behind Brenda’s living room curtains. The woman was watching them leave, her face a pale oval in the shadows. The hairs on Jenna’s neck prickled.
“Do you really think Roger would kill someone for scratching his car?” Jake asked as they turned onto Maple Street. “I mean, I’ve dealt with him on noise complaints. He’s unpleasant, sure, but murder is a big jump from being a town crank.”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “People have killed for less. And that car means everything to him—it’s the one thing in his life he has complete control over, that responds exactly as he expects it to.” She paused. “But there’s something about Brenda …”
Jake glanced at her. “You think she’s lying?”
“Not lying exactly. But she certainly had opportunity. The physical strength required wouldn’t be much if Derek was as drunk as Aaron said he was.”
They fell into thoughtful silence as the car approached the older industrial section of town.
Dixon’s Small Engine Repair occupied a corrugated metal building that had once been an auto parts store.
The faded sign above the entrance featured a cartoon chainsaw with an improbable smile.
A chain-link fence enclosed a yard full of mowers in various states of disassembly, mechanical casualties awaiting resurrection.
Jake parked in the gravel lot beside the building. Through the large front windows, Jenna could see shelves lined with parts, tools, and the odd assemblage of items that defined Roger’s business. No customers were visible inside.
“Let me take the lead on this,” Jenna said as they exited the car. “Roger and I have a... history.”
Jake raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask for details. He knew enough about small-town dynamics to understand that “history” could mean anything from an old dispute to a high school romance gone sour.
They approached the entrance, a heavy metal door with a hand-lettered sign declaring “HOURS: WHEN I’M HERE. CLOSED: WHEN I’M NOT. DON’T LIKE IT? GO ELSEWHERE!” Below, in smaller print: “No exceptions for ‘emergencies’ with equipment you neglected all year.”
A bell jangled harshly as Jenna pushed the door open. The interior smelled of motor oil, metal shavings, and the sharp tang of engine fuel. Fluorescent lights overhead, casting everything in a flat, unforgiving glow.
Roger Dixon emerged from the back room, wiping his hands on a rag that had long ago surrendered to permanent stains.
He was a wiry man in his late fifties, with thinning gray hair and deep lines etched around a perpetual scowl.
Grease darkened the creases of his knuckles.
His coveralls bore the battle scars of countless repair jobs.
“Well, well,” he drawled, tossing the rag onto a cluttered counter. “If it isn’t our esteemed Sheriff Graves and her loyal deputy.”
His eyes, sharp despite his age, assessed them with open hostility. Jenna met his gaze steadily, refusing to be intimidated by his posturing.
“Mr. Dixon,” she began, “we’d like to ask you a few questions about—”
“Derek Sullivan,” Roger finished for her, his thin lips curling. “Yeah, I wondered how much longer it was going to be before you showed up.”