“Did he have any friends in town?”
“Not that I knew of. He always came in here alone. And he never really joined in the gossip mill,” Betty added, glancing over at the table in the corner that were busily talking among themselves. I knew from her description that it had to be the same guy I’d seen outside the police station.
“Weird. I wonder why this Jason guy keeps asking about him. I saw him outside the police station when I went and gave my statement that day. He was asking me about the body and stuff. I told him off, and that was that.”
Betty’s eyes narrowed.
“He came in here yesterday, asking for information about Tony. He wanted to know how long he’d lived here for, if he’d ever mentioned having any family, if he had a family now, that sort of thing. I didn’t really tell him anything, told him I didn’t know Nyman. Going by the reactions of other people in here, I don’t think he got what he was after.”
“Strange,” I muttered.
“You know what’s even stranger? It turns out someone broke into Tony’s house yesterday?”
“Really?” I asked, feigning surprise, my eyes widening.
“Yes. Patricia Wilson came back from work yesterday and saw his door was wide open. She called Chief Gary and he told her it was good she called, that someone had been in the place. Apparently it was completely ransacked. If you ask me, I think it was that Jason boy. He’s up to no good, that one. He’s not from here, and he keeps asking about our murder victim. I think he did it,” she added at the end in a conspiratorial whisper.
I mulled over her words as I took another sip of coffee.
Of course, Betty thinking Jason Black was guilty wasn’t exactly catching him red-handed, but I thought it was interesting that he was hanging around and asking questions. After all, where did he come from? Why was he hanging around asking about Tony? And if he did really kill him, why was he hanging around town now?
As I left the coffee shop and went back to work, it felt like I had more questions than when I walked in.
Chapter 11
The morning of Tony Nyman’s funeral wasn’t pretty.
For one thing, Charlotte, Angela and I had stayed up way too late on Saturday night, drinking wine and margaritas and going through possible murder suspects that got more and more insane until finally we were convinced that it was Jon Bon Jovi who had done it.
Not long after that, we all passed out. That was probably a good thing.
I woke up in the morning groaning, bemoaning the fact that I was no longer eighteen years old and that five margaritas and most of a bottle of wine wasn’t something I could pull off pain-free anymore.
Stumbling to the bathroom to grab some aspirin I ran into Sophie, who looked just as bad as I did.
“Don’t talk. Don’t say anything,” Sophie whispered to me. I nodded, squinting against the bright light flowing in from the outside and made my way back to bed, clutching my pill bottle to my body like it was the most precious thing I owned.
Three hours later I was feeling a little bit better. We made Charlotte get us McDonalds, since being the youngest of the three of us – and also the lightest drinker – she was in way better shape to go outside than Sophie and I. With some apple juice, hashbrowns and hot cakes in me, I felt a lot better, and by the time we had to leave for the funeral, I was almost back to normal.
“Really? You’re wearing that?” Charlotte asked Sophie as she looked my best friend up and down. I had to bite my lip to stop from laughing. Sophie had always had a bit of a – unique – style, but even I thought she was pushing it a little bit for a funeral.
“What?” she asked, scowling. It’s black, what’s the problem?”
Sophie was wearing shiny black leggings with a halter crop top and Doc Martens style boots. I had to admit, it looked super hot, but it was definitely not funeral material.
“It’s not… really what I would wear to a funeral where I don’t want to stand out,” I told her. “And that’s what we’re trying to do. Not stand out. The leggings are fine. But you need to change your shirt, and also the boots. Like, wear a pair of black flats or something. Please.”
Sophie glared at both of us.
“You guys get to wear what you want.”
“Our first picks were socially acceptable funeral wear,” Charlotte shot back, and when Sophie looked at me for support, I could only shrug.
“No. This is what I’m wearing.”
“I will curse you,” I told her. “I’ll make it so your leggings rip when we’re out in public.”
I stared my best friend down. I loved her, but sometimes, she just needed a bit of incentive to do the right thing. She stared right back at me, and I could see her trying to read if I was bluffing.
“Fine. But I hate both of you,” Sophie finally capitulated as she went back up the stairs to change.
Luckily, when she came back down later she’d replaced the crop top with a flowy shirt, the boots with ballet flats, and added a huge, oversized black hat to the ensemble. She looked like a grieving hippie, but that was still a lot better than before.
“There. Now if you’re both finished being my mothers, we have to go, or we’re going to be late.”
Bee was lying in a ray of sunlight by the front door and was visibly annoyed when we all stepped over her to get out.
“Good. Get out. You’re ruining my sun,” she grumbled as Charlotte opened the front door.
“Maybe you could try finding a less convenient position next time,” I shot back at her, and got my ankle swiped at for my trouble.
“I swear, sometimes Bee makes me wish I was a dog person,” I muttered as I closed the front door behind me.
“You say that, but you love that cat more than you love me,” Charlotte told me, and Sophie laughed.
“That’s so true,” she added, and I blushed.
Ok, fine. I love my cat. Even when she’s at her catty worst.
We all piled into Charlotte’s car, a 1996 Honda Civic with half a million miles on it that somehow managed to make it to and from Portland four times a week, even though I joked that it probably shouldn’t be allowed on the Interstate at all. Charlotte loved the car, though, and even gave her a name: Dora.
“Alright Dora, we’re just going down to the church today,” Charlotte told the car, giving her an encouraging pat as she put the key in the ignition. “Let’s do this, girl.”
Sophie and I giggled silently together as Charlotte gave her car a pep talk. I had offered to buy her another one, something that could actually go 70mph, but Charlotte always refused. She said she liked Dora, and she was attached. I just figured my little sister was going a bit nuts.
Ten minutes later we joined what seemed like the entire town of Willow Bay at the local church, where Tony Nyman’s funeral was to be held. Apparently the allure of a funeral from a murder was exciting enough to bring out most of the population, especially on a Sunday.
“I feel so self-conscious now, like we’re just like everyone else, looking for gossip about a dead person,” Charlotte muttered as we walked through the crowd towards the church. The inside was already so packed with people that there were no more seats, and the walls were lined with people as well.
“I know,” I replied. “Me too. Even though I know we’re just looking for clues about who might have killed him. Do you see anyone that doesn’t really belong here?”
Sophie nudged me and I looked to my left. Standing about ten feet away from us were some very, very shady looking dudes.
I had never seen them before. Hell, I’d never even seen people like them before. There were three of them, all men. Two of them looked to be in their 50s or so, with greying black hair that was gelled back from their heads in a way that somehow made them seem balder than they actually were. The third one’s hair was a little bit messy, and he looked around constantly, like he was a little bit more uncomfortable being here.