Chapter 11
ELEVEN
Scarlett went still as her heart thrummed in its cage. Whatever was behind them sounded large, aggressive, and mean. Visions of sharp teeth and flesh rent to ribbons filled her mind.
Slowly, not wanting to startle the hostile animal, Scarlett turned. Archer had already stepped to shield her from the threat, his arms out, his body tense. She could see the cords on the side of his neck, the slight twitching in his fingertips. His knees were bent, ready to spring.
They faced the forest. Tall grasses shielded the view of the base of the nearest trees, with bushes clumped just behind Archer’s truck. The growling grew louder as the bushes rustled.
“Scarlett,” Archer said in a low, calm voice. “I need you to get back in the truck.”
“What about you?” she answered, trying and failing to match his tone. Her voice wobbled, and the growling redoubled. Whatever was back there, it had to be huge. The noise it made was deep and resonant.
“I’ll be fine,” Archer replied, bending down to grab the end of a stick lying halfway in the tall grass. “I need you to be safe and get in the car, sweetheart.”
“I don’t want to leave you here to fight that thing.”
A deep, loud bark made them both flinch.
“Please, Scarlett. Get in the car.”
“Okay.” Scarlett could tell that Archer’s attention was being split between her and the threat, so she had to do what he said for both of their sakes.
But as soon as she took a step toward her car, the bushes shook violently and the animal’s barking became incensed. It was about to charge.
“Scarlett, get in the car !” Archer grabbed the stick like a baseball bat and widened his stance, ready to fight monsters for her.
Scarlett screamed and dove for the driver’s side door, letting out a panicked noise when she found it locked. The keys—where were the keys? Archer swore, shifting the stick to one hand so he could root through his pockets.
Then the bushes went eerily still.
Fingers pressed to the cool metal of the truck’s door, Scarlett glanced over her shoulder to meet Archer’s gaze. His keys were dangling from his fingertips, extended toward her.
But it was too late.
The beast flew out from the bushes and attacked, a ball of brindled fur and fury, barking loud enough to make birds take flight from every tree in sight.
Scarlett screamed and wrapped her arms around her face, just in time to hear a sharp whistle slice through the air.
The silence that followed was thick as soup. Slowly, Scarlett dropped her arms…
And saw the tiniest dog she’d ever seen in her life.
That animal had made that noise?
It was some sort of mix which obviously had chihuahua ancestors somewhere in its not-too-distant lineage. It stood before them, trembling, teeth bared, tall enough to reach about eight inches off the ground.
“Jumbo! Stop that racket!” a voice boomed from the workshop.
The dog’s growls quieted down, but its teeth remained bared. Archer still gripped the stick with both hands and didn’t take his eyes off the dog.
“Come here, boy,” the man behind them called, whistling again.
Jumbo sneezed, and it would have been adorable if Scarlett’s body hadn’t been dealing with an excess of adrenaline. Slowly, she spun around and got her first good look at Ralph Lewis.
The man was tall and thin, with a shock of white hair and a thick white beard. He picked the miniature dog up with one gigantic hand and tucked the creature into his arms. Then, long strides crossing the weed-strewn gravel between them, Ralph approached.
He wore faded, shapeless jeans and only a threadbare T-shirt to ward off the chill of the air. A knife in a leather sheath was clipped to his waistband; he carried a weapon everywhere he went. Was he violent, or was it a tool? His bushy eyebrows were pulled low in a scowl as he took in the still-cowering Scarlett and stick-brandishing Archer.
This man would have recognized Archer’s truck outside of Scarlett’s shop. He would have known the toolbox strapped to the bed was full of tools that could easily serve as weapons.
“Put that thing down, Jones. You’re making a fool of yourself.”
Archer dropped the stick. “Hey, Ralph.” He cleared his throat. “Long time no see.”
Ralph made a rough noise at the back of his throat and brought his free hand up to scratch his dog behind the ears. Jumbo let out a big yawn and snuggled against the old man’s chest.
“Um. Cute dog,” Scarlett said, her voice slightly squeaky.
Ralph squinted at her. “Who are you?”
The dog lifted its head and growled, but it sounded halfhearted. Ralph grunted, twitching the dog with the arm that held it, and the growling stopped.
“This is my—this is Scarlett,” Archer cut in, and Scarlett glanced over at the stumble in his speech. What had he been about to say? “We wanted to talk to you.”
“And here I thought you were too high and mighty to come visit an old man,” Ralph replied, swinging his icy gaze to Archer. “Haven’t heard a whisper from you in nearly a decade.”
“Last time I called you, you chewed me out for mitering joints for exterior trim, even though that’s what the client specifically asked for. You told me not to come back until I learned some common sense.”
“Miters open up when the wood swells,” Ralph shot back. “Terrible idea.”
“I know that. You know that. I told the client that. They still wanted miters on their plinths.”
“Looked like shit a year later. Couldn’t believe an apprentice of mine would leave a job looking like that.”
Archer shrugged, looking exasperated. “You think I didn’t warn them?”
Ralph harrumphed, then turned around and strode toward his workshop. Archer glanced at Scarlett and tipped his head to indicate that they should follow.
Scarlett’s first impression was that Ralph Lewis had not killed Ethel Brown. She couldn’t see Archer misjudging the old man so badly. But he did seem angry, and he had chopped a man’s fingers off for sleeping with his wife. So. He wasn’t a stranger to violence when his emotions were high. He also would have known Archer’s truck, and he was in the area at the time of the murder.
Three sets of footsteps crunched on gravel as they approached the workshop. It was about four times the size of the little cottage in front of it, and it smelled like fresh-sawn wood mixed with the sharp tang of something chemical—stain or turpentine or glue. Two table legs were clamped together on one work surface while the table’s top rested against another.
Ralph shuffled through the space, grabbing a pencil from a table and sticking it behind his ear. He set the dog down on the floor and turned toward the other two half-finished legs of the disassembled table.
Archer glanced around. “Heard you were making furniture now,” he said, running his hand over the perfectly smooth tabletop. “Looks good, Ralph.”
Ralph grunted, marking a measurement on the unfinished end of the table leg. In the silence of the workshop, Scarlett could hear the scratch of the pencil against the wood grain. Her feet crunched on wood shavings, shoes leaving footsteps in a little drift of sawdust.
Ralph slid safety glasses over his eyes and flicked the table saw on. He trimmed the top of the table leg to size and ignored Archer and Scarlett entirely. The dog watched on suspiciously, then wandered off to a dog bed in the corner for a snooze.
When the whine of the mechanical saw quieted down again, Archer cleared his throat. “You mind if we talk for a minute?”
“You still here?” The question was gruff.
Archer glanced at Scarlett, grimacing.
Scarlett took a deep breath. “Mr. Lewis, my name is Scarlett Westbrook. I own Pushing Daisies.”
Ralph looked up from his work and pinned her to the spot with his glare. “That’s where Ethel Brown croaked.”
“I—um—yes,” she finished lamely.
“And you want to talk to me about it.” It wasn’t a question.
“Look,” Archer cut in. “Ralph. We heard that you might have been around the flower shop at the time of the murder, and we were wondering if you’d seen anything strange on Saturday night.”
“Didn’t realize you were working for the cops now.”
Scarlett noticed a bit of red creeping up Archer’s neck. He was frustrated. “We’re not. I’m just—” He huffed. “Listen, we walked in and saw Ethel Brown’s body on the floor, all right? We just want to see if we can figure out what happened.”
Ralph crossed his arms, then brought a hand up to rub his cheek. Scarlett noticed a band of pale skin around his third finger. A tan line. He’d recently stopped wearing a ring.
“I went to Bussy’s around dinnertime,” Ralph said. “They got that new chef at the beginning of the summer, and sometimes I go in to get dinner. Didn’t see anything strange. Few people around, nothing out of the ordinary. Heard the sirens when I went outside to head home.”
“You didn’t see Ethel?” Archer prodded.
Ralph shook his head. “Nope.”
“Do you remember what time you were there?” Scarlett put in.
Ralph’s pale blue eyes cut to her. He shrugged. “Five o’clock?”
That would put it before sundown, at least forty to fifty minutes or more before Scarlett and Archer left the Barlows’ place. If the body was still warm by the time they found it, it meant Ralph was too early—or he was lying.
“Right.” Archer glanced at Scarlett, and she couldn’t read what was in his gaze. She arched her brows.
Should they ask about his arrest? About the axe? The man who now had two fewer fingers than he should?
As if Archer could read Scarlett’s mind, he turned to Ralph. “How’s Ada?”
Ralph’s face didn’t even twitch. “Couldn’t tell ya.”
“What do you mean?”
“She moved out eighteen months ago,” Ralph said, working on the last table leg. “Why do you think I have to go all the way to town for a decent meal these days? I’m not going for the company, that’s for sure.” He lifted the piece of wood up to inspect the bottom of it, his big, calloused hands moving gently over the material.
Archer’s brows jumped. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Wasted too many years on that woman,” he said, then put the table leg down and scowled at the two of them. “Is that it? Will you leave now, or are you waiting for me to admit I’m the one who killed Ethel Brown?”
Scarlett went utterly still. The dog let out a low rumble of a growl. No one moved.
Archer said, very quietly, “Did you?”
Scarlett sipped in a tiny, shallow breath. The scent of the workshop seemed heavier than it had a moment ago, almost cloying.
Ralph snorted and shook his head. “I didn’t kill her. I got a burger at Bussy’s and then I went home. Now get out of here. You’re upsetting the dog.”
They walked out under the watchful eyes of Jumbo the dog, who followed them out and stood guard at the entrance of the workshop. Then they got in Archer’s truck and drove back around the run-down cottage and down the gravel driveway. As they turned onto the road, Scarlett let out a long breath. “You think he did it?” she asked.
Archer was silent for a while and finally shook his head. “I just can’t see him for it.”
“The time doesn’t match up. Sunset was around six, and he said he was in town at five.”
“It would be easy enough to cross-reference with whoever was working the bar at Bussy’s last night.”
Scarlett nodded. “Good idea. Isn’t it closed on Mondays, though?”
“So we’ll go tomorrow.”
Scarlett turned to the window to hide her smile. She liked the sound of that “we.”
Archer was on edge. He didn’t want to believe Ralph killed Ethel, but he couldn’t be sure. He wanted Scarlett, but he knew she wasn’t ready to commit to him. Tension pulled him in every direction until he felt like he’d burst out of his skin.
He needed to let off some steam. Fight or fuck or run or do something to burn off some of this excess energy. So when he saw the Shell station sign in the distance, he made a snap decision and turned in.
“Archer,” Scarlett warned.
“What?”
“Don’t give me that angelic look. You know what I’m talking about.”
“I need gas.”
“You have more than half a tank.”
“It’s a good deal. Few cents cheaper than usual.”
“He’s probably not even working here anymore.”
“Who?”
She clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes, and Archer laughed. He pulled up to the pump nearest the gas station entrance, and they both looked through the glass.
“Is that him?” Archer asked, jerking his chin at the man behind the register.
“I’m not going to answer that.”
“Suit yourself,” he said and got out of the truck. He filled up the tank, then met Scarlett’s gaze through the windshield. She scowled at him, so he winked. He could tell the sigh she let out was exasperated by the look on her face, even though he couldn’t hear it.
Whistling to himself, he crossed the pavement and headed for the sliding glass doors.
“Archer, just pay at the pump,” Scarlett called out behind him.
He turned, grinning. “I did. But I feel like buying a pack of gum.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” she clipped, and then her eyes widened.
“Scarlett?” a voice said behind Archer.
He turned to see a man in his mid-to-late twenties with curly dark hair and a wispy mustache. He wore a polo branded with the gas station logo, dark jeans, and a nametag.
Archer’s lips curled, and judging by the man’s responding frown, it wasn’t a nice smile. “Hello, Jimmy.”