Chapter 12. Libel and Liability
LIBEL AND LIABILITY
WHITNEY
I stowed the dry cat food back in the pantry and glanced at the clock.
I’d lost all track of time looking over Tyler’s paperwork.
Collin would be home soon and hungry for dinner, but the events of the day had left me emotionally and physically exhausted.
The last thing I felt like doing was cooking.
I peeked into the fridge. Good. There was plenty of leftover pasta from the evening before.
I sat back down and resumed looking at the documents. When I finished, I slid them into a manila folder and tucked it into a tote bag in the bedroom.
Collin arrived home a few minutes later, while I was cutting slabs of lasagna and putting them on plates to warm up in the microwave.
He walked into the kitchen. “Saw your boots in the garage. They sure got muddy.” He took one look at my face and, before I could even respond, said, “You okay? You look especially tired.”
“It happened,” I said. “Again.”
“Another murder? No!” He grabbed me by the shoulders and looked me up and down, turning me around in a full circle as he inspected me for any signs of injury. “Are you okay? Is the baby okay? Please tell me you’re both okay!”
I bit my lip to keep my emotions in check and nodded.
He released his grip and guided me over to a stool. “Sit. I’ll get you a glass of wi—” He’d been about to say wine, but caught himself. “How about a cup of herbal tea? I’ll finish making dinner, too.”
“That would be great. Thanks.”
He fixed the tea, then warmed up our dinner.
We moved to the kitchen table, where I filled him in on the day’s events while we ate.
My trips to the Victory Garden and bookstore.
Parking in the barn. Climbing up to the hayloft for a nap.
Hearing shouts and being nearly beaned by the flying backpack. Finding Tyler’s body.
Knowing how seeing Tyler Yee would have traumatized me, he reached across the table and gave my hand a squeeze. “At least the pitchfork was through his back and not the front. He probably didn’t see it coming and his death was quick.”
It was a small consolation, but I’d take it. “When Tyler tossed his backpack into the hayloft, papers went everywhere. The wind was blowing them all around, so I grabbed what I could and put them in my car to keep them safe.”
He gave me a knowing look. “And?”
“And I snapped photos of the papers with my phone.”
He looked around, not even bothering to pretend he didn’t know what I had done. “Where are the copies you printed out?”
“I’ll get them.”
I rounded up the folder and set it on the table. He went through it, looking at each piece. When he saw the two recall notices, he said, “Let’s stay away from those Cybertrucks. Don’t want that trim piece flying off and crashing through the windshield, or one of them rear-ending us.”
“Definitely.” If I was going to be in a wreck, I’d rather it not be with such a goofy-looking vehicle.
I told him that the restaurant receipt and the postcard from the Redemption Fellowship had caught my attention, and explained why.
“Tyler was planning to do an article on the plant-based-eating trend, and he was going to interview Deborah for the piece. Both times I’ve seen her in the restaurant, she was wearing a French comb with chicken feathers in her hair.
When I found Tyler, a black and white chicken feather was blowing around him.
There was one just like it on Deborah’s hair comb. ”
Trained to look at situations from every angle, Collin said, “Couldn’t the feather have blown over from the coop?”
“Maybe,” I said. “But it was so rainy and muddy out there today it seems like the feather would have become stuck in the mud before getting that far.” I took a sip of my tea.
“Isn’t it strange that the pastor of the Redemption Fellowship and his wife would send Tyler a handwritten postcard wishing him well months after he wrote the exposé about the church and talked about it on his podcast? ”
“Possibly,” Collin said. “Hard to say without knowing them.”
“There was another piece of paper I didn’t get a photo of,” I said. “It was a protective order Tyler had obtained against a guy named Quentin Sanderson. Sanderson was arrested three years ago for his involvement in a drug ring. The protective order is dated last Friday.”
Collin rounded up his police department laptop and logged into the criminal records database.
While he was generally prohibited from using his access to police databases to assist civilians, in this instance he could justify it.
I was a witness in a murder investigation, and my input could be essential to nailing the killer.
“Sanderson was released from prison four months ago.”
“What’s he look like?”
Collin pulled up his driver’s license photo and mug shot.
The man in the photos looked vaguely familiar. Is he the guy I saw sitting in the Charger Hellcat? “What’s he drive?”
Collin tapped a few more keys and maneuvered the mouse. “Dodge Charger. A red one. The Hellcat model.”
My pulse raced. “I think I saw him. A red Hellcat was in the parking lot at a shopping center near Gail Pittman’s property last Tuesday.
I’m pretty sure the car was there again today.
I need to tell Detective Alonzo.” I stood and went to the living room for my purse, where I’d stashed her business card.
“Let’s call from my phone,” Collin said. “Keep things official since we used nonpublic information to figure this out.”
I nodded and he dialed Detective Alonzo’s number on his work-issued cell phone.
After they’d exchanged pleasantries, Collin asked if he could put her on speaker so I could participate in the call.
When she agreed, he tapped the button to turn on the speaker and placed the phone in the center of the table between us.
He held out a hand, inviting me to start the conversation.
“I saw a document blowing around at the barn today,” I said.
“It was a protective order Tyler had taken out against a man named Quentin Sanderson. I’m almost certain Sanderson was in the shopping center at the entrance to the Pittman property last Tuesday and today, too.
I saw a red Dodge Charger Hellcat in the parking lot last week, and I’m fairly certain I saw one drive off today shortly after Deputy Swisher arrived. ”
Collin said, “After Whitney told me this information, I did some digging. Sanderson was recently released from prison. The motor vehicle records indicate that he drives a red Dodge Charger Hellcat.”
“Good to know,” Alonzo said. “You two have saved me some legwork.”
Collin sang my praises. “Whitney has a history of helping with murder investigations. She’s got amazing instincts for a civilian.” He told her how I’d been instrumental in solving several homicides associated with my flip projects.
“Impressive,” Alonzo said. “Maybe she should consider a career change.”
I’d never give up flipping properties. It was too much fun. But I was flattered nonetheless.
Alonzo told us that she was able to get camera footage from the shopping center.
“Thank goodness the systems had battery backup or we’d have been out of luck from the storms today.
I’ve run through the recordings, but I was keeping an eye out for vehicles that turned down the dirt drive to the Pittman property.
I noticed the Hellcat in the parking lot, though.
It’s hard not to notice a car like that.
So far, I’ve been going through Yee’s phone and getting in touch with people he’s interacted with recently, but Yee made and received a lot of calls and texts.
There were over a hundred communications involving sixty-three unique phone numbers in the past week alone.
I suppose that’s par for the course for an investigative reporter. At any rate, thanks for the tip.”
I didn’t bother to tell her about the other documents I’d taken photos of. Detective Alonzo had access to the paperwork I’d accumulated. She could discern for herself what seemed relevant. I didn’t want to overstep or waste her time.
After we ended the call, Collin volunteered to do the dishes. “Go lie down on the couch. I’ll come rub your feet as soon as I’m done in the kitchen.”
Sawdust padded after me as I made my way to the couch. He gave me a moment to get settled, then hopped up by my legs, stepping up onto my abdomen and settling atop my baby bump. I stroked him until Collin came to rub my feet, when I set him on the floor. “Sorry, boy. It’s my turn now.”
Gail Pittman called me early Tuesday morning.
After expressing our mutual disbelief and horror over what happened to Tyler Yee, she suggested we reschedule our meeting for the following Monday morning to go over the remodeling ideas for the barn.
“A week will give the mud time to dry. No sense in getting ourselves and our vehicles dirty again. Would ten o’clock work for you? ”
“Sure.”
If the killer wasn’t caught by then, I’d take my extra-large wrench with me.
After all, we didn’t know exactly what the killer’s intentions had been.
Presumably, the killer was either Quentin Sanderson, who wanted to end Tyler Yee’s life for a reason I had yet to uncover, or the killer was someone Tyler had infuriated by one of his published articles or podcasts, or by a current investigation he was conducting for a future piece he planned to put out.
It was unlikely I was at risk, but for my baby’s sake I would be extra careful.
Before we signed off, I asked Gail to bring a copy of the property survey when we met next week. “Buck and I will need to know the boundaries to make sure we don’t inadvertently trespass on an adjacent parcel. We also need to make sure we don’t build anything over a utility easement.”
“I’ll bring the survey,” Gail said. “See you then.”