CHAPTER EIGHT
Roger Dixon’s eyes glinted with amusement, his mouth curling into something between a smile and a sneer as he leaned against the counter of his repair shop. A wall of shelves behind him displayed an orderly collection of parts—carburetors, air filters, spark plugs—each in its designated spot.
“Don’t worry, Sheriff,” he continued, raising his hands in mock surrender. “If you’re here to arrest me, I’ll come along peacefully. No need for the handcuffs unless you’re into that sort of thing.”
Jenna kept her expression neutral, though she felt Jake stiffen beside her at Roger’s flippant tone.
The repair shop was empty of customers, giving their conversation an uncomfortable intimacy beneath the harsh lighting.
A broken lawnmower motor sat disassembled on a workbench behind Roger, its parts spread out in a careful pattern that probably made sense to him.
“And why would we be arresting you, Mr. Dixon?” Jake asked, his voice steady and professional. “What do you think is the reason for our visit?”
Roger lowered his hands and shrugged, his weathered face settling into an expression of indifference. “I assume you’re here about Derek Sullivan’s murder.” He paused, eyes darting between them, assessing their reactions. “And I must be at the top of your suspect list.”
The directness of his answer caught Jenna by surprise. Most people in Trentville danced around difficult subjects, burying accusations in layers of small-town politeness. Roger’s bluntness was almost refreshing, if unsettling.
“Did you kill Derek Sullivan, Mr. Dixon?” Jenna asked, matching his directness with her own.
Roger’s expression shifted, growing more calculating.
He scratched at his chin. “You know, Sheriff, it’s illegal to lie to law enforcement officials.
” He tapped on the countertop, a steady rhythm like a metronome.
“But it’s not illegal not to answer your questions.
It’s called the Fifth Amendment, remember? And I don’t intend to answer that one.”
The repair shop suddenly felt too small, the air between them charged with unspoken implications. The meticulous organization of his displays stood in stark contrast to the chaos Roger seemed to be trying to create.
“A person we interviewed told us something interesting just now,” Jenna said, changing tack. She watched Roger carefully. “They said that you told her you were going to kill Derek. Do you deny saying that?”
Roger let out a sharp laugh, the sound bouncing off the metal shelving.
“I said exactly that to that Drummond woman. Told it to her face yesterday when I ran into her outside the hardware store.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret.
“She looked like she’d swallowed a lemon whole when I said it, too.
Probably rushed home to update that little gossip website of hers. ”
“So you admit to threatening Derek Sullivan’s life just a day before he was murdered?” Jake’s voice held an edge now, his patience visibly fraying.
“I admit to saying words. That’s all.” Roger straightened, his expression hardening. “People say things they don’t mean all the time—and some things they do mean. It’s hard to know which is which, but not for Brenda Drummond, right? She takes everything as gospel, doesn’t she?”
Jenna knew that Roger had been working on that Mustang for as long as she could remember, a project that never quite reached completion because he kept finding new details to perfect. “Do you really think Derek deserved to die for keying your Mustang, Mr. Dixon?”
“Derek Sullivan deserved to die just for being the kind of guy he was,” Roger said flatly, all pretense of amusement gone. “Trentville’s better off with him gone. That’s just a fact.”
The coldness of his statement hung in the air. A wall clock behind the counter ticked loudly in the silence, marking the seconds. Through the front window, Jenna could see people walking past on the sidewalk, going about their day, unaware of the conversation taking place inside.
“Why do you think it was Derek who keyed your car?” Jake asked, steering the conversation back to safer ground.
Roger exhaled heavily, as if the question required him to revisit an exhausting memory. “Couple of days ago, Derek came storming in here, all worked up. Demanded to know if I’d finished repairing his weed trimmer.”
“And had you?” Jenna asked.
“That’s just it. He never brought one in.” Roger spread his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I told him that, and he got hot under the collar. Started yelling that he’d dropped it off last week, remembered it clear as day.”
“What happened then?” Jenna prompted when Roger paused.
“I told him he was welcome to look around the shop himself. ‘Find your weed trimmer,’ I said, ‘and I’ll fix it for free.’“ Roger’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “But he wouldn’t even look. Just kept insisting I was hiding it or had sold it or some nonsense.”
Jenna knew there would probably be no repair logs to check. Roger’s shop had a reputation for operating on handshake agreements rather than proper paperwork.
“Then Derek really lost it,” Roger continued, warming to his story.
“Launched into this whole tirade about my business practices. Said I deliberately don’t give customers receipts so I can keep their stuff and deny ever seeing it.
” He scoffed, gesturing to the organized shelves around him.
“Like I need his cheap piece-of-junk trimmer.”
“What happened after that?” Jake asked.
“He demanded I replace it with something of ‘similar value.’ When I refused, he stormed out, threatening all kinds of nonsense.” Roger’s eyes narrowed at the memory.
“Later that same day, I found my Mustang with a nice long scratch down the side. The classic I’ve spent years restoring, ruined by that drunk. ”
“You didn’t see him do it?” she asked.
“Didn’t need to. Who else would it be?” Roger’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the counter edge. “And to top it all off, he filed a complaint with the Better Business Bureau. They’ve been breathing down my neck, demanding records I don’t keep because this isn’t some big-box store.”
“So now Derek’s dead, and we suspect you,” Jake summarized bluntly. “How does that make you feel?”
Roger’s expression shifted into something almost like pride. “Honestly? I’d be insulted if I wasn’t at the top of your list. Man threatens me, damages my property, tries to ruin my reputation—then turns up dead? You’d be a poor excuse for a lawman if you didn’t look at me first.”
The casual way he embraced suspicion intrigued Jenna. Either Roger Dixon was the killer, comfortable in the belief they couldn’t prove anything, or he was innocent and simply enjoyed the drama of being a suspect. Neither option spoke well of his character.
“Let me be clear, Mr. Dixon,” Jake said, his tone growing harder. “You need to tell us one way or another whether you killed Derek Sullivan, or risk being charged with obstruction of justice.”
The tension in the room ratcheted up several notches. Roger’s eyes narrowed as he studied Jake, measuring the seriousness of the threat. For a moment, Jenna thought he might continue his evasion.
“No,” Roger finally said, the word clipped and definitive. “I did not kill Derek Sullivan.” He paused, then added with unsettling sincerity, “But when you do catch the killer, I’ll want to shake his hand. He’s done the town a service. The mayor ought to give him a medal.”
Jenna felt Jake shift beside her, ready to respond, but she cut in before he could escalate the situation further. “How did you find out about the murder, Mr. Dixon?”
“It was all over TownCircle this morning,” Roger replied, seeming relieved at the change of subject. “Not just there, everywhere else too. Town gossips all working overtime. Is it true what they’re saying? That he was found wrapped up like some kind of bizarre gift? Red yarn all over him?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of an ongoing investigation,” Jenna replied automatically, though the accuracy of the rumor disturbed her.
It wasn’t surprising that word of the yarn had gotten out, but it wasn’t going to help their investigation.
By now, Brenda Drummond wasn’t the only one spreading details of the story.
“If it’s true, that showed some real style,” Roger said with an admiring shake of his head.
“As I said, Mr. Dixon, I can’t comment on that.” She kept her voice steady despite her unease. “Where were you between 1:30 and 3:30 this morning?”
Roger’s expression turned sour at her refusal to share details. “I was at home, asleep in my bed, like most normal people. But no, I don’t have anyone who can confirm that. Live alone, sleep alone.” He spread his hands. “Make of that what you will, Sheriff.”
The door swung open, announcing a customer’s arrival. A middle-aged man entered, carrying a chainsaw with a warped guide bar. Roger’s demeanor shifted instantly, professional interest replacing the confrontational stance.
“Excuse me,” he said to Jenna and Jake. “Paying customer. Unless you’re arresting me right now, I’ve got work to do.”
“We’ll be in touch, Mr. Dixon,” Jenna said, recognizing the interview had reached its natural conclusion. “Don’t leave town without informing us.”
Roger gave a mock salute. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Sheriff.”
The repair shop felt smaller as they made their exit, squeezing past the customer who was already deep in conversation with Roger about his chainsaw troubles. Outside, the September air was crisp, a welcome relief after the stifling atmosphere inside.
“What do you think?” Jake asked as they walked back to their car. “Is he our guy?”
Jenna considered the question, sorting through her impressions of the interview. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “He’s got motive and no alibi. And he’s not exactly broken up about Derek’s death.”
“But?” Jake prompted, sensing her hesitation.
“But something feels off. His openness about wanting Derek dead, his willingness to be suspected.” She shook her head as they reached the car.
“It’s either the perfect cover—hiding in plain sight—or he really didn’t do it.
He does seem to believe that it was Derek who keyed his car, but he could just be getting a kick out of being suspected.
And the yarn—that doesn’t seem like the sort of thing he would do. ”
“Either way, we don’t actually have enough to bring him in,” Jake concluded, unlocking the doors.
Jenna’s phone rang, interrupting her train of thought. The caller ID showed Davis, one of her officers. She accepted the call, putting it on speaker. “Davis, what have you got for me?”
“Sheriff, I’ve been checking with the craft and fabric stores like you asked,” Davis’s voice came through, slightly tinny on the car’s speakers.
“The second place I hit, Craft Corner on Elm, says they had an unusual purchase last week. David Ellington bought what the clerk called ‘an enormous amount’ of yarn.”
Jenna exchanged a quick look with Jake, both recognizing the significance. “What color, Davis?”
“All kinds of colors, definitely including red,” he replied. “Said Ellington told her it was for a ‘community tapestry’ project.”
A new piece of the puzzle clicked into place. David Ellington—the local eccentric artist known for his unpredictable public installations and private, reclusive nature.
“Good work, Davis,” Jenna said. “Keep checking the other stores, but this is a solid lead.”
She ended the call and looked at Jake. “Ellington’s place?”
Jake nodded, starting the engine. “Could be nothing. The man’s an artist, after all.”
“An artist who suddenly needed enough yarn to wrap a body,” Jenna countered. “It’s worth a conversation, at the very least.”
As Jake pulled away from Roger’s shop and headed toward the outskirts of town where Ellington lived, Jenna found herself thinking of Piper’s words again. Red is for rage.