Chapter 11 Noah #2
“Wait.” Lottie’s eyes widen. “You filed actual charges? Oh wow, I sort of feel bad. Those kids have no idea what they did.”
“They’re not kids,” Everett says, his voice flat and hard. “They’re young men. And if we let them travel down this wayward road unchecked, they’ll end up in juvie or worse. Better they learn consequences now than after they kill someone.”
I nod. “Agreed. I filed the report this afternoon. And I also got an estimate for replacing your windshield—it’s not cheap.”
“Sorry, Lemon,” Everett says, his expression softening slightly when he looks at her. “You’ll have to drive Carlotta’s minivan until it’s fixed. Noah dropped by my office and gave me the invoice, so I walked the bill over to the Pickens family this evening before I came home.”
Lottie’s eyes go wide. “You what? What happened? What did they say?”
“They wouldn’t open the door despite the fact I could clearly hear the television,” Everett says. “So I left it in their mailbox.”
“I drove by after work, too,” I add. “The older kid was out front with five or six of his friends. Every single one of them gave me the bird.”
Lottie groans. “I feel terrible. Especially knowing the wife is a nurse who works long hours at the hospital while her husband and kid run amok.”
“Don’t feel bad,” Carlotta says, finally joining our conversation instead of the peacock’s. “That man is a waste of space, and those boys need to learn respect. Let me just go over there and have a little chat. I know people who know people.”
“Carlotta—” Lottie starts.
“Back in my day, we handled neighborhood disputes with flaming bags of dog poop and a firm understanding of property boundaries.”
“That’s literally arson,” I point out.
“Or,” Carlotta continues, “I could seduce the dad and then blackmail him into controlling his kids. It’s foolproof.”
Everett closes his eyes for a second too long.
“What if I just accidentally run over their mailbox?” Carlotta suggests. “Repeatedly?”
“Stand down,” I tell her. “We’ve got this handled through legal channels.”
“Boring,” Carlotta mutters. “You might as well just send them a strongly worded letter and a basket of muffins.”
“I thought of that.” Lottie nods.
Carlotta rolls her eyes. “You would.”
I pull up Daryl’s rap sheet on my laptop. “Speaking of legal channels, Daryl Pickens has an impressive record. Three DUIs, multiple driving on suspended license charges, and a failure to appear in court.”
“Charming,” Lottie says.
“And I found out the house is in Tammy’s mother’s name,” Everett adds. “She rented it to them when she moved to Arizona about a year ago. Tammy is paying the mortgage while Daryl drinks beer and plays video games.”
We all sit there for a moment, unified in our rage and frustration at a situation where we’re legally powerless to do much beyond filing paperwork and hoping the courts actually follow through.
“I wish we could teach those punks a lesson ourselves,” I mutter.
“Same,” Everett says. “But we’re civil. And this is why we have courts.”
He doesn’t sound convinced. Neither am I.
Lottie’s phone rings, and she glances at the screen. “It’s Mom.”
She puts it on speaker.
“Lottie, have you seen Midge’s husband?” Miranda’s voice is frantic.
Lottie blinks. “Mom, Midge told me her husband passed away a couple of months ago. I think maybe she misplaced him at the cemetery?” She snorts at her own joke, and Carlotta cackles.
“I know that, Lottie,” Miranda says, exasperated. “But she’s been carrying his remains around in this precious blue velvet box. She only brings him to Daughters of Honey Hollow meetings because he rarely missed one. He was our accountant. Bernard was very dedicated.”
Lottie gasps. “I took the blue velvet box! I tried to catch up with Midge in the parking lot when she left it behind, but she was already gone. Wait.” She looks in the box again. “There are no ashes in here. Just rocks.”
“Well, that’s him. That’s Bernard,” Miranda says cheerfully. “Midge had his ashes turned into memorial stones. Oh, you’d be surprised what they can do with ashes these days. You can be turned into jewelry, or a star, or even a vinyl record, or a firework! I personally want to be—”
Lyla Nell chooses this exact moment to try putting one of the rocks in her mouth.
“OH MY GOODNESS!” Lottie lunges across the coffee table like a defensive linebacker, snatching the rock from Lyla Nell’s hand.
Lyla Nell screams bloody murder. “LOTTIE LEMON, GIVE THEM BACK! YOU SHARE RIGHT NOW!”
But Lottie’s already collecting all five pieces of Bernard Thornbury, holding the box out of reach from tiny, grasping hands.
“I guess Midge can finally tell him he’s as dumb as a box of rocks,” Carlotta says. “Though in this case, he literally is a box of rocks, so the joke writes itself.”
I bite back a laugh despite the absurdity.
Everett tips his head. “That man handled the accounting for half the organizations in town.”
“You’re fun at parties,” I tell him.
Lyla Nell is still crying, reaching for the box, and Lottie is trying to explain why we don’t eat dead people while her mother’s voice continues from the phone, listing increasingly bizarre options for posthumous transformations.
Everett catches my eye. We both stand, moving to the kitchen where it’s marginally quieter.
“We need to handle the Pickens situation,” he says quietly.
“Agreed. I’m following up with the DA’s office tomorrow. Pushing for them to actually prosecute instead of letting it slide.”
“And I’ll make some calls. See if we can’t make Daryl’s life a little more complicated legally.” Everett’s smile is cold. “Nothing unethical. Just thorough.”
“I like thorough.”
We shake on it. A silent pact between two men who love the same woman and will burn down the world to keep her and her children safe.
I head back to the living room, give Toby a pat, and crouch down to Lyla Nell’s level. She’s stopped crying, now glaring at the blue velvet box like it personally betrayed her.
I kiss her forehead, and she immediately wraps her little arms around my neck.
“I love you, baby girl,” I tell her.
“Love you, Daddy.” She pats my cheek with one sticky hand. “No more rocks?”
“No more rocks,” I confirm.
“Kay.” She releases me and toddles back to Pancake, who’s currently pretending she doesn’t exist.
I kiss Lottie on the forehead next—quick and casual, a gesture that’s become muscle memory over the years. Her skin is warm, and she smells like vanilla, and I have to physically force myself not to linger.
“Night, Lottie,” I murmur.
“Night, Noah.”
Outside, the spring night has turned cold, so cold that it settles in your bones and whispers that winter isn’t quite done yet. Toby trots beside me as we cross the street to my cabin, and I can’t shake the chill that has nothing to do with temperature.
Murder leaves a stain on a town. I’ve seen it before. And somewhere out there, someone’s walking around thinking they got away with killing Vivienne Pemberton-Clarke.
They’re wrong.
The night air smells like regret and mistakes people think they’ve buried deep enough that no one will find them.
But I’m good at digging.
And I always find what I’m looking for. That is, if I can outpace the best detective in all of Vermont—Lottie Lemon.