Dead Ringer (17 page)

Finnegan rested his head on my knee, his brown eyes gazing up at me.

I couldn't help but smile, even if it was tinged with sadness. “Maybe things will look better tomorrow, right, Finnegan?”

It was worth hoping for, at least.

 

Chapter 17

T
HAT NIGHT MY
sleep was troubled by bad dreams. Reverend McAllister chased me through a burning building, the ceiling collapsing in our wake as I ran along corridor after corridor. I slammed through a wooden door and found myself in my apartment. For a brief moment I thought I was safe, the fire and the reverend locked away on the other side of the door. But then I realized I wasn't alone. Half the orchestra was in my apartment, smashing and slashing at all of my belongings. They cackled at me as they carried out their destruction, their eyes wild.

Shelley and Susannah sat on the floor, rocking back and forth, sobbing loudly. Their tears flooded the room, the water level rising and rising until the windows burst outward. The water cascaded out of the new openings, sweeping the demonic orchestra members away.

Again I thought I was safe. But then the water turned to a rushing river of blood. It lifted me off my feet and carried me away. I struggled to stay afloat, but a hand grabbed my ankle and pulled me under. Blood filled my mouth, my nose.

I gasped and jolted awake.

It took me a moment to realize I'd been dreaming. There was no fire, no river of blood. Reverend McAllister wasn't chasing me, and my fellow musicians hadn't all gone psychotic.

My breathing and heart rate eventually slowed, but I was shaken up and wide awake. I switched on the bedside lamp and shoved back the blankets. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and slid off the mattress until my feet hit the floor.

I considered getting a drink of water but decided that what I really wanted was company. I eased opened the bedroom door and crept out into the hallway. Finnegan was curled up on his bed outside JT's door. He lifted his head when I emerged from the guest room, going from asleep to alert in a split second.

“Finnegan,” I whispered. “Come here, boy.”

He got up off his bed and trotted over to see me. I knelt down and buried my face in his fur. After several seconds Finnegan wiggled free and licked my face. Our snuggle session left me feeling better, but I still wanted his reassuring company.

I made a clicking sound with my tongue as I turned back to the guest bedroom, and Finnegan followed. I left the door open a crack in case he wanted to leave the room later on and then climbed back into bed. Finnegan jumped up beside me and settled down on top of the covers.

I switched off the lamp and snuggled deeper beneath the blankets, comforted by Finnegan's weight pressed against my left side. The horrors of my nightmare weren't real, but they were triggered by the events of the past few days. The murder, the fire, the break-­in at my apartment—­they were all far too real for my liking. They were also too unsolved for my liking. But at least with Finnegan by my side, I was able to drift off back to sleep, this time without nightmares.

M
ONDAY BROUGHT A
welcome distraction from all my worries—­work. Although I couldn't play my violin during my lessons as I usually did, that wasn't much of a hindrance, and the day passed without me spending too much time dwelling on the macabre or my lack of luck in the love department.

After the last student left my studio, I checked my phone and found a text message from Mikayla, asking if I wanted to go out for dinner with her that night. I sent back an affirmative reply. A girls' night out was probably what I needed. We arranged to meet at a restaurant downtown and I ran upstairs to change and freshen up my makeup before heading out.

JT was downstairs in his recording studio, Finnegan keeping him company, so I sent him a quick text message to let him know that I was going out and set off for the bus stop.

When I met up with Mikayla, I had to explain how I'd injured my hand, and she was suitably shocked by my story. But as soon as we settled in at a table in the restaurant, our conversation drifted to other topics. I knew I'd been right to accept her invitation. She was a good talker and so upbeat that I didn't have to worry about my thoughts straying into territory that I wanted to avoid. At least, that was the case until we started in on our dessert of hot fudge brownie sundaes.

“I saw you talking with the maestro after Jeremy's funeral,” Mikayla said, putting an end to my distraction from all the things I didn't want to think about.

I jabbed my spoon into the mound of brownie, fudge, and ice cream. “He tried to give me that whole ‘my feelings for you are real' speech.”

Mikayla rolled her eyes. “Don't they always.”

I swallowed a delicious spoonful of my dessert, the heavenly taste a stark contrast to my sour thoughts. “Is there something wrong with me? I mean, do I have ‘fool' written across my forehead or something?”

“Of course not. You're not the only one who's been lied to by a man. Not by a long shot. Believe me.”

“I know. But sometimes I wonder if I'm destined to be alone, to never find the right guy.”

“Oh, please.” Mikayla jabbed the air with her spoon. “Don't you start thinking like that. You're younger than I am, for crying out loud, and it's not like I'm all settled down.”

“I guess.” I put another piece of brownie in my mouth and savored it. “But what if all the good guys are already taken?”

“They aren't. They're just a lot harder to find than the not so good ones.”

I sat back and finished off the last sip of my cocktail. “I hope you're right.”

“I am,” Mikayla said before swallowing the remainder of her dessert. “Take JT, for example. He's not in any sort of long-­term relationship, is he?”

“Not at the moment,” I said, thinking of Shauna and wondering where that would end up going.

“And he's one of the good ones, isn't he?”

“Yes.”

“So . . . any chance there could be anything between the two of you?”

“Mikayla!”

“What?” Her dark eyes were innocent.

“It's not like that with us. We're friends.”

“I thought you once said you had a crush on him when you first met.”

“Sure, but that was years ago.” I'd only been nineteen to JT's twenty-­one when I met him. At the time, I was smitten by his easygoing personality and good looks. Especially those root-­beer-­colored eyes of his. “I got over it. Now he's my best friend.”

“Doesn't mean things can't evolve.”

“Mikayla!”

She raised her hands in surrender. “Fine. But if you ask me, you're missing out on a keeper there.”

I didn't respond. What was I supposed to say to that? I knew JT was a great guy. That's why he was my best friend. And sure, any woman would be lucky to have him as their significant other, but it simply wasn't like that between us. So it was End of Story, as far as I was concerned.

Still, I decided to hold onto one thing Mikayla had said. Maybe there still were some good guys out there who weren't already spoken for. Maybe there was even one out there for me. I just needed to keep looking, and not let myself get too jaded because of jerks like Hans.

I felt more hopeful about the future as I parted ways with Mikayla and rode the bus back to JT's house. I even had a bit of a spring in my step as I trotted up the stairs to the front door. I used my key to let myself in and pushed open the door. I stopped just over the threshold.

Finnegan scrabbled across the hardwood floors to greet me, but that wasn't what caught my attention. JT was on the couch in the living room, and he wasn't alone. A brunette sat next to him, and even though there was no physical contact between them at the moment, I got the distinct feeling that my entrance had interrupted a make-­out session.

“Hi,” I said, still standing in the foyer with the door open. I absently reached out with one hand to pet Finnegan on the head.

JT cleared his throat. “Hey, Dori. This is Shauna. Shauna, my friend Midori.”

Shauna wiggled her fingers at me. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I said again.

A draft of cool evening air wafted against my back, reminding me that I'd left the door open. I pushed it closed and shoved my keys in my purse.

“Did you have a good time?” JT asked me.

“Yes, thanks.” I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, awkwardness filling the foyer around me. “But I'm tired, so I'm going to call it a night.” I smiled at Shauna. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” she said.

I dashed up the stairs, Finnegan racing along with me.

“Good night!” I heard JT call from below.

I headed straight for the guest room and plopped down on the bed. Encouraged by his invitation to join me the night before, Finnegan hopped up beside me.

I kicked off my boots, relieved to have escaped the stifling, uncomfortable feeling that had taken over me downstairs. “Talk about a third wheel, huh, Finnegan?”

My canine pal sat down at my side and licked my cheek. He gave me his best doggie grin, his tongue rolling out the side of his mouth.

I smiled. “You're right, buddy. I'm never out of place with you.” I slung an arm around him and gave him a hug.

But even though I had Finnegan to keep me company, my temporarily raised spirits had taken a nosedive. I changed into my pajamas and climbed into bed, hoping once again that things would look up in the morning.

A
T LEAST
I managed to sleep through the night without any disturbing dreams. I awoke slowly, curled up beneath the warm covers. Finnegan was still beside me, somehow taking up two-­thirds of the queen bed even though he wasn't a huge dog. I only had my eyes open for a few minutes when I heard a tap on the half-­closed bedroom door. Finnegan jumped up and bounced off the bed.

I rolled over so I could see JT opening the door the rest of the way. “Morning,” I mumbled in a sleepy voice.

JT crouched down to greet Finnegan. “Morning. Looks like you found yourself a roommate.”

“Sorry about letting him on the bed. He keeps the nightmares away.”

A flicker of concern showed in JT's eyes. “That's all right. But he probably needs to visit the backyard now.” He got to his feet and Finnegan brushed past him, heading for the stairs. “You getting up?”

“Mmm.” I snuggled against the pillows. “Soon.”

JT leaned against the door frame. “I was thinking of cooking up some bacon and eggs. You want some?”

The prospect of a home-­cooked breakfast perked me up. “Please.”

“I'll start cooking in a few minutes, then.” JT followed Finnegan downstairs.

I rolled out of bed and grabbed some clean clothes out of the bag I'd brought from home. After a quick shower, I padded downstairs in my bare feet, the smells of brewing coffee and frying bacon wafting toward me. I breathed in with deep appreciation as I arrived in the kitchen, slipping onto one of the stools at the granite breakfast bar.

JT poured a cup of black coffee for himself and set a vanilla latte in front of me. A plate of bacon and two sunny-­side-­up eggs followed shortly after.

“Yum,” I said as I dug in.

JT joined me at the breakfast bar, and Finnegan settled at our feet. We ate in silence for a few minutes until I decided to raise the subject that had been on my mind the night before as I drifted off to sleep.

“I think I'll move back home today.”

JT stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth. He lowered it back to his plate. “Do you know something I don't? Has the intruder been caught?”

I snapped a piece off a strip of bacon and put it in my mouth. “No,” I said after chewing and swallowing.

“Then it's not safe for you to go back there.” He resumed eating.

“But I can't let this person—­whoever they are—­keep me out of my home forever.”

“It won't be forever. Give the cops a chance to do their job.”

I chomped on another piece of bacon. The truth was, I didn't feel comfortable with the idea of going back home yet, but I wasn't sure that I wanted to stay at JT's any longer either.

I decided to address the heart of the issue. “I'm cramping your style. I'll be all right at home.”

JT had picked up his coffee mug, but set it back down on the counter with a clack. “Cramping my style? What are you talking about?”

“Shauna, of course.”

JT stared at me for a second and then picked up his mug again. “I barely know her, and it's not serious yet.” He took a sip of his coffee. “You are not cramping my style, okay? I like having you here.”

“You do?”

“Of course I do. Besides, if you go home, I'll have to camp out on your couch so I don't worry about you.”

“My couch is toast,” I reminded him.

“On your living room floor, then. And, so you know, I get grouchy when I have a sore back.”

I smiled. “All right. I'll stay a while longer.”

I munched on the last of my bacon, thoughts turning in my head. As sweet as it was of JT to let me stay at his place, I couldn't remain there forever. I needed to reclaim my home at some point. I couldn't let some shadowy figure keep me away from it and my normal life much longer.

But who knew how long it would take the police to catch the culprit?

There was even a chance that they'd never catch them. It wasn't as if unsolved cases were a rarity.

As I sipped my latte, I decided the only way to ensure that I could return home safely before too much more time passed was to figure out who the guilty party was myself.

 

Chapter 18

A
FTER BREAKFAST
I accompanied JT and Finnegan to the local park. A few joggers and other dog walkers were out, and kids loaded down with bulging backpacks were on their way to school. The morning air was sweet and refreshing.

JT and I stopped to wait as Finnegan conducted a thorough sniffing investigation at the base of a tree. My phone buzzed in my pocket and I fished it out to see who was calling.

Susannah.

I put the phone to my ear. “Hi, Susannah. How are you?”

“Okay.” Somehow she managed to make that one word sound incredibly timid and fragile.

“What's wrong?” I asked, concerned.

“I just got an e-­mail. I think it's from Reverend McAllister.”

I frowned, not liking the sound of that. “What does it say?”

“He threatened me again.” She sniffled.

“Susannah, you need to tell your mom right away.”

“I can't.”

“Why not? She already knows that McAllister threatened you before, doesn't she?”

Her silence spoke to me as loudly as a stereo playing at top volume.

I closed my eyes. “Susannah . . .”

“I couldn't tell her! Not after . . .”

“After what?”

She sniffled again. “After I told the police that nothing happened.”

I closed my eyes again.

“I don't know what to do.” She was crying now.

I let out a quiet sigh. “Why don't I meet you so we can talk some more?” I suggested. “Are you at school?”

“Yes.”

“How much time is there before your first class?”

“Not much. But I don't mind skipping. I'd rather talk to you.”

I wasn't in the habit of encouraging kids to skip school, but I couldn't ignore the fact that she was distraught. “Which school do you go to?”

“West Hill.”

West Hill was my old high school. It wasn't far away. “I can be there in about twenty minutes. I'll meet you out front, okay?”

“Okay,” Susannah agreed.

I hung up. JT and Finnegan had moved on to another tree.

When I caught up to them, JT asked, “Everything all right?”

“I'm not so sure. Susannah's really upset. I'm going to go meet her and try to sort things out.”

“You're not going to do anything dangerous, are you?”

I rolled my eyes. “I'm going to talk to a fifteen-­year-­old girl. How dangerous could that be?” I raised a hand in a wave. “See you later.”

I crossed the park to the nearest bus stop and only had to wait a minute or two before the right bus arrived. I climbed aboard and disembarked less than fifteen minutes later. The bus had dropped me off almost directly in front of the school, and I spotted Susannah right away. She sat at one of the picnic tables on the front lawn, facing outward. She waved when she spotted me.

Aside from a ­couple of straggling students making their way into the building without either haste or enthusiasm, Susannah and I were alone. I sat down next to her, noting that she wasn't currently crying. I wondered how long that would last.

“Did you tell the police what I told you about Reverend McAllister?” Susannah's tone wasn't accusatory but she looked at her hands in her lap rather than at me.

“I did,” I admitted. “It was important. It's possible that the incident gave McAllister motive to kill Jeremy. You know that, so why did you tell the police nothing happened?”

Susannah chewed on her bottom lip. “I was going to tell my mom, but I was just waiting for the right time. Then a detective showed up at our house and I got scared.”

“The police want to help, Susannah.”

“But then this e-­mail came in, and . . .” Tears welled in her eyes.

“What exactly did the message say?” I asked.

“It said if I told anyone about the video or made it public, the whole world would know I was a thief and I'd stolen money from the church.” A tear escaped and trickled down her cheek. “I'm not a thief!”

I put a hand on her arm. “Of course you're not.” I recalled what she'd told me over the phone. “You said you thought the e-­mail was sent by Reverend McAllister.”

She nodded.

“But you're not sure?”

“It wasn't signed, and there was no name in the e-­mail address.”

That was unfortunate, but since McAllister had threatened Susannah before, it was reasonable to assume he was behind the e-­mail. Most likely the account was created solely for the purpose of sending Susannah the message. I was no computer expert, but I wondered if the police could link the message to an IP address and then to McAllister, or at least a specific Internet account connected to him.

“Did you delete the message?”

Susannah cringed. “Yes.”

Darn. Maybe it was still in her account's trash folder. If not, maybe it was possible for a computer whiz to retrieve it somehow. Then again, maybe not.

“It was so awful. I just wanted to get rid of it,” Susannah said.

I could tell she was worried that I was angry with her. I wasn't. Frustrated, but not angry. “I understand,” I assured her. “But the police need to know about this, Susannah. All of it.”

Her shoulders slumped. “I know. I guess I should call my mom,” she said without a shred of enthusiasm.

“You should. Will she be at home?”

Susannah shook her head. “At work. She might have time to talk, if I tell her what it's about. But what if she's mad at me for lying?”

“I'm sure she'll understand why you lied. But it's time to come clean.”

Susannah swallowed. “Will you stay here while I call her?”

She looked and sounded so young that my heart clenched with compassion for her. “Sure.”

She moved a few feet away and put her phone to her ear. I could hear her voice but not her words. After minute or two her tears flowed again and the occasional hiccup interrupted her. I'd never known anyone who cried quite as much as Susannah, but in her defense, she'd been through a lot lately.

I watched the branches of a nearby ornamental cherry tree bow and sway in the morning breeze. The front door of the school banged open, and two boys in their mid-­teens raced down the stairs and off around the corner of the building, laughing as they went.

To pass the time, I checked my own phone for messages. I had a text from JT which read,
You're staying out of trouble, right?

You really have to ask?
I wrote back.

Yes. Yes, I do
, came his reply a moment later.

All I sent back in response was an emoticon with its tongue sticking out.

Susannah returned to the picnic table. I slipped my phone into my purse and waited for her to speak.

She clutched her phone in her hand. “My mom wants me to go to the police station and talk to Detective Salnikova. She's the detective that came to our house. My mom will meet me there as soon as she can.”

“It's for the best.”

She sucked on the inside of her cheek for a second. “Will you come with me? Just until my mom gets there?”

I grabbed my purse off the bench and stood up. “Of course.”

I still had a ­couple of hours before I started teaching, and I could understand why she wouldn't want to walk into the police station on her own. Going there and talking to a detective would be overwhelming and intimidating enough for her with company. Doing it alone would probably be downright terrifying. Besides, I wouldn't mind an opportunity to speak with Bachman or Salnikova myself. I wanted to know if they'd made any progress with their investigation. They might not want to tell me much, but I still wanted to try to get some information out of them, even if it was only a scrap or two.

Susannah and I didn't talk much during the bus ride to the police station. She fidgeted the entire way, and chewed on her bottom lip so much I worried it would bleed. I hoped things wouldn't get any harder for her. She'd already been through so much.

At shortly past nine-­thirty I accompanied her through the main doors of the police station. There was a different woman at the glassed-­in reception desk this time. I explained to her who we were and why we were there and she directed us to sit in the molded plastic chairs in the waiting area.

We sat in silence, Susannah still fidgeting, her face pale. After about five minutes her mother bustled into the station. Susannah jumped up from her seat and catapulted herself into her mother's arms. Relief trickled through my body. I didn't mind keeping Susannah company and providing her with moral support, but her mother really was the best person for the job.

Mother and daughter were still hugging when Detective Salnikova emerged into the reception area from a door on the left. Her eyes focused on Susannah, but I jumped up from my uncomfortable seat and intercepted her.

“Ms. Bishop,” Salnikova acknowledged when she saw me. “Are you here to share more information too?”

“No, I came along with Susannah. But I was wondering if there was any news, any progress with the investigation?”

“The murder investigation or the break-­in at your apartment?”

“Both. They're connected, aren't they?”

“We haven't yet confirmed whether they are or aren't. However, we have a man in custody for another break-­in, and we're looking at him as a possibility in your case too.”

That was a surprise, but a pleasant one. “Where did the other break-­in take place?” I was eager for information that might help me connect all the dots spattered crazily around in my mind.

Salnikova's eyes shifted to Susannah and her mother before returning to me. It wasn't hard to figure out that she was more interested in talking to them than to me. “Mr. Ralston's basement suite.”

“Oh, so you caught the guy from the night I was there.” Did that mean they'd also caught Jeremy's killer?

“Not from that night.” The detective interrupted my thoughts. “This was another break-­in. He was caught climbing in through a broken window last night.”

Another break-­in? Last night?

I tried to rein in my wildly galloping thoughts. “Who is it? Is it someone I know?”

“Sorry,” Salnikova said, not sounding very sorry at all. “I'm not at liberty to disclose that information. When we have something to share with you about your particular case, you'll be informed.” She gave me a curt nod. “If you'll excuse me.”

She left me standing there in the middle of the reception area, a hundred different thoughts clashing together in my head like cymbals played by unruly children. One thought clamored more loudly than the others, about the identity of the man in custody.

I wanted to know who he was, so much so that I was tempted to chase after Salnikova and plead with her to tell me. But I knew that would be pointless. She wouldn't tell me any more than she'd go out and shout it in the street.

I made a face, fortunately only witnessed by a dusty potted plant in one corner of the reception area. I stepped back as Salnikova ushered Susannah and her mother past me and through a door. Susannah glanced over her shoulder at me before disappearing. I sent her a quick wave and what I hoped was a reassuring smile before the door closed behind her.

I pulled my phone from my purse and glanced at the time. It was still fairly early, but it would probably be a good idea for me to head to my studio. It wasn't as if hanging around the police station would do me any good. I'd have to be happy with what little information I'd gleaned from Salnikova, even if it wasn't nearly as much as I wanted.

I pushed through the station doors and out onto the sidewalk, pointing myself in the direction of the nearest bus stop. As I walked to the shelter and sat down on its bench, I turned all the new information over in my mind. I didn't know the name of the person the police had caught breaking into Jeremy's suite, but I did know from what Salnikova had said that he was a man. Unfortunately, most of the ­people on my list of suspects were men.

I couldn't even cross Clover off my list of suspects for Jeremy's murder, because I didn't know if all of the events were related. I believed they were, but I didn't know for certain. Hopefully the police would come up with some answers soon. But even if they didn't, I planned to come up with some of my own.