Royally In Trouble Read online

  “Will you wait a minute?” he called from behind me.

  “No.” I opened the front door, the rain misting my face. “We’re done here.” With this conversation—and with whatever was between us that we’d never get right.

  Beau stopped at the threshold and slowly turned to face me.

  “Please leave.” I bit my lip and glanced away.

  “I just don’t want to see you hurt.”

  I shut the door.

  Knowing it was far too late.

  40

  The next morning, after two whole hours of fitful sleep, I awoke with a burning need for coffee and a new resolve to get a grip on my life.

  The first thing on my agenda after a shower and caffeine drip was to talk to Alice. What I’d rather do was go to Sugar Creek Bank and Trust and talk to Nathan, see what he knew about Trace’s agreement to sell out to Heartland Amusements. But that would have to wait till tonight.

  Because I had put off this Alice business long enough.

  Henry was right—if I was going to run my own business, I had to do more than just deal with the pretty things. It was past time for me to lay down the law to my employee, no matter how awful. No matter how much the very idea made my stomach tie itself in a double knot. No matter how much it made me eat a bag of M&Ms for breakfast. Adulting was just hard.

  After a quick phone call in which Alice’s oldest child let me know the location of his mother, I hopped in the car, letting my GPS boss me all the way to her father-in-law’s farm. Gray skies echoed yesterday’s chances of more impending rain. After a dry summer, I knew the farmers would welcome the slightest sprinkle. I pulled my Toyota into the gravel drive of an older red brick home. Black shutters framed the windows, an old antennae stuck out crooked from the roof like a broken antler, and fat hostas lined the sidewalk leading to the front door.

  When Alice answered my third knock, I handed her a box of donuts. Henry never said I couldn’t pave the way to bad news with carbs. “Good morning. I thought we might have a chat.”

  She lifted the lid and sniffed the glazed aroma. “I figured you’d eventually want to. Come on in.”

  I followed her into a small living room painted a cheery yellow whose star attraction was the giant picture window framing the green fields behind the house. Nautical prints hung beside family photos on the walls. Mr. Hemmings stood over a stack of boxes, sealing one up with an ornery roll of packing tape.

  “My father-in-law was in the Navy.” Alice gestured to one of the decorated walls. “Pops, you remember my boss, Paisley?”

  “Sure, sure. Welcome to our mess.”

  It was disaster central. Boxes everywhere. And it looked like they were just getting started. “When did you say closing is?” I asked.

  “Next week.” Angela forced a smile for her father-in-law. “Pops, grab a donut and take a break. Paisley and I are gonna go outside and chat.”

  Alice inclined her head toward the back door and led the way out.

  “I’m sorry to bother you right now,” I said as we settled into metal chairs. “Michaela Wilkins’ mom has called a few times about her daughter’s bachelorette party, and Henry couldn’t find any answers to her questions in your file.”

  “Honestly, I’m not sure I wrote our last few conversations down.” She tapped her forehead. “I’ve got all the info right up here, but it’s behind instructions for the movers, shopping lists for the retirement home, and questions for Dr. Jenkins.”

  Thunder rumbled in the distance, and clouds gathered into clusters, undulating in shades of cobalt and gray. I could smell the storm easing its way into town, and I let the wet air fill my lungs. Wind blew my hair, and I had the fleeting thought that I’d love to return home and nap my way through the rain. When was the last time I’d afforded myself that indulgence?

  “I know Henry’s mad at me.” Alice slipped a black ponytail holder from her wrist and tied back her locks with a worn-out sigh. “If he could just give me a few more days.”

  “I’m not sure we can.” The words hurt to say, just like Henry had promised. “I’m sorry, Alice. We can’t keep going on like this. We need you at work. We’re really struggling without you.”

  “I understand.” She watched a herd of cows in the pasture mosey in the same direction. “It’s hard, you know?” Her fingers dashed away tears as small raindrops began to fall on the grass. “After I divorced Jimmy, I never in my life thought I’d be taking care of his dad. I get so mad at my ex-husband for up and dying on me. For leaving my kids. For leaving me by myself to handle everything. I do the best I know how, and it’s still not enough. It never is.”

  I didn’t know this life she walked—of being a single mom, divorced, taking care of an aging parent who didn’t even belong to you. But if Enchanted Events was five percent more my business than Henry’s, I could make an executive decision. My still-developing professional instinct said we needed to troubleshoot before we terminated employment. “I want to help, but you’re going to have to tell me how.”

  She wore her fatigue like a ski jacket in August. “I don’t even know where to start.”

  I tried to think practical. If we could get Alice back to work, Henry would just have to push pause on giving her the pink slip. “What if I gathered some people together to help you pack? Would that free you up to return to work?”

  The rain hit the metal roof above us, a fierce beat to let us know it had finally arrived. “I hate to impose.”

  “You’re not. I can have ten people from my church here in half an hour. What else?”

  “I couldn’t ask any more than that.”

  The grass glistened as the rain fell. “Henry sent me to here to fire you.”

  “In that case, I need someone to pick up Jordie from band practice every day at five, cook dinner for the next two weeks, clean Pop’s house from top to bottom, organize his things into a storage unit, and help move furniture to his new place.”

  “Done.” I’d have Frannie and Sylvie recruit their Sunday school class, as well as get Emma and Noah to pitch in. “Send me a schedule, and I’ll handle the logistics.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Absolutely. I wish you would’ve asked for help sooner and—” My jaw clamped shut on whatever else I was going to say, my thoughts flying away like spooked blackbirds.

  “Paisley?”

  “Alice, what is that?” I stepped off the porch, water drops pelting my hair.

  “What are you looking at?” she called. “Get out of the rain.”

  I kept walking toward the fence line, pointing toward the distance.

  In the field, surrounded by rows of dried cornstalks, standing tall and proud—a windmill.

  A tall, fully functioning windmill.

  My mind flashed back to the blueprints of the future Renaissance faire grounds I’d found in Nathan’s office. I shoved my hair from my face, stood in the yard, and turned a half circle. To my right, probably a good two hundred feet, I spied two oak trees, majestically swaying in the wind. Turning to my left, I could see nothing but a rundown barn and a handful of cows who were indifferent to the weather.

  “What’s in that direction?” I pointed beyond the barn.

  “Um, west?”

  “No, what’s over there?” I poked the air with my finger three times, as if that made it any clearer. “On the other side of the barn, will I find a pond?”

  Alice considered this from the cover of the porch. “Yes. It’s the neighbors. My kids used to swim in it. Are you feeling okay, Paisley?”

  “Is it in the shape of a heart?”

  “What?”

  “The pond. Is it in the shape of a heart?”

  Lightning cracked from miles away. “Yeah, sorta. Hey, why don’t you come on out of the rain, okay? You’re starting to worry me a bit.”

  “How many acres is this?” I walked back toward the house, the rain seeping into my clothes.

  One hundred and twenty,” she said.

  The plans said t
he grounds were spread over a hundred and fifty acres. “Who owns the property to the east?”

  “Mitchell Crawford,” Charles Hemmings said as he joined his daughter-in-law on the porch. “Alice, why is this woman standing in my yard in the rain?”

  I knew Nathan and Trace certainly hadn’t acquired any land from the millionaire rancher. Crawford bought land—never sold. “And to the west—with the pond?”

  “I dunno,” Alice said.

  “Is the last name—”

  “Peele. Murphy Peele.” Pops held a donut covered in sprinkles. “In trouble with the law all the time.”

  The sky split with lightning, and the clouds melded into darkened layers, letting the storm take control.

  “Who’s buying your farm, Mr. Hemmings?”

  Scowling, he waved me to the porch. “Some outfit called Creekside Investments.”

  Water dripped from my hair to my face, and I didn’t even care. “Do you know anything about them?”

  “Nah. Just that they agreed to a quick close, but gave me some extra time on getting out. Didn’t seem to be in too big a hurry for me to vacate. And they didn’t get my mineral rights. Those are for Alice and the kids.” He took another bite of donut and patted his daughter-in-law’s shoulder. “I want to make sure they’re always taken care of when I’m gone.”

  “Pops, don’t be talking like that.”

  “Why not? I know I don’t have many canasta games left in my life. Those mineral rights will provide for your family long after I’m gone.”

  Alice sniffed. “Let’s talk about this later, okay?”

  “That’s what you’ve said for the last year.” Pops focused those sharp eyes on me. “Miss Paisley, when I’m gone, you can remind Alice here that my will is in my lockbox at the Sugar Creek Bank and Trust. She and the kids get it all, but I’ll no more than take my last earthly breath than the sharks will be circling for the mineral rights. You remind her not to sell, you hear me?”

  My brain shifted into hyper focus. “What mineral rights? Here in Sugar Creek?”

  “Natural gas. Right on my land,” Pops said. “I’ve sold the property so Alice could have all of the money and none of the hassle. But I kept the mineral rights, and she can lease or do whatever she needs to keep her assets making money.”

  “I won’t sell them,” Alice said. “I promise.”

  “Those developers and state officials can be awful convincing.”

  “Is Creekside Investments owned by Nathan Moore and Trace Hudson?” I asked.

  “Beats me,” Pops said. “It’s all been handled through attorneys. Their names weren’t disclosed, and I haven’t been that interested.”

  Nathan had said they were still finalizing details. I would bet my favorite leather jacket those final pieces involved closing on Mr. Hemming’s land and purchasing Peele’s farm. “Do other properties in Sugar Creek have natural gas beneath them?” I asked.

  “Most of the land within a mile of here do,” Alice said.

  “What about Peele’s place?”

  Pops nodded. “Yep. I heard his land was under contract. Never even went on the market. Dumb fool threw in his mineral rights from what I understand.”

  “Peele would be stupid if he sold the rights,” Alice said. “Some months that pays Pops thousands.”

  “Enough to cover my extended luxury vacation at the Shady Pines retirement home,” Pops added. “That’s gonna buy me a lot of pudding cups.”

  “Could Peele’s buyer be the same Creekside Investments?” I asked.

  “Maybe,” Pops said. “But if it’s the banker and that man who was killed, I can’t imagine how they’d have the funds. Between my farm and Peele’s, you’re easily talking close to four million or more.”

  That sounded impossible.

  “I’ve got to go.” I needed to get Frannie to uncover all she could about Creekside Investments. “I’m pretty sure we’re standing on the grounds of the new Sugar Creek Renaissance Faire.”

  “Is it relevant to the murder?” Alice asked.

  I looked toward Peele’s farm. “I’m not sure.”

  It had to be a missing piece.

  I just didn’t know how.

  41

  I hopped in my car, dialed Sylvie, and called an emergency meeting, updating her as I drove.

  By the time I walked into her house, my shoes leaving a wet trail, she and Frannie had cookies baked, tea brewed, and laptops whirring on the dining room table.

  “What did you find online?” I poured myself a glass of iced tea and sat down.

  Frannie flicked at the edges of a Tupac sticker on her laptop. “My latest SouthernSingles match is wanted in the state of Texas and has a thing for lady’s pantyhose.”

  “I meant about the faire property.”

  “Just a little warm-up discovery,” Sylvie said. “Carry on, Frannie.”

  My aunt clicked off of her favorite dating site. “Creekside Investments is the limited liability company owned by Trace Hudson and Nathan Moore. Originated nine years ago.”

  “And Rebecca?” I asked.

  “Her name isn’t on the LLC filing,” Sylvie said.

  “They haven’t purchased Peele’s land yet,” Frannie said. “But the acreage with the mineral rights would be astronomical.”

  My grandmother opened a new search tab. “Maybe Nathan got them a whopper of a loan.”

  “We need to talk to Murphy Peele. Surely he knows where his payment’s going to come from. I stood up and grabbed my purse. “Let’s go see if he’s home.”

  Sylvie pushed me back to my seat with a stiff hand. “Not so fast.”

  “We did a background check on this Murphy Peele.” Frannie topped off my tea. “Seven jobs in the last two years. Did five years in prison right out of high school for forgery and embezzlement. A few DUIs, two arrests for possession. Awaiting trial for a battery charge.”

  Sylvie reached for a cookie. “Basically he sounds like someone Frannie would get matched with at SouthernSingles.”

  “I do tend to attract the projects, the manly works-in-progress,” Frannie said. “When you told me about the distinctive landmarks on Peele’s property, I pulled up the farm on satellite.” Her red nails click-clicked on the keyboard, zooming in on Murphy’s land. “Here’s your heart-shaped pond.”

  “Very romantic,” Sylvie said.

  “There’s the windmill you found.” Frannie changed the view to 3-D and rotated the picture. “This is one of two barns on the property.” The photo blurred as she maximized it even more. “Does this look familiar?” A blue Ford Mustang could be seen under the cover of the barn.

  I leaned closer to the screen and sucked in a breath. “That’s the car that nearly ran me over, isn’t it?”

  Frannie nodded. “I’d bet my Justin Timberlake-signed bra it is.”

  The puzzle pieces wanted to click together so badly. “Nathan and Trace buy property from Murphy Peele. Trace dies, and weeks later Peele tries to run me down. What would Peele gain from my backing off the case?”

  “My guess is someone put him up to it,” Sylvie said.

  I thought of every warning I’d heard from Matt and Beau. “I guess the right thing to do is call Detective Ballantine and have him bring in Murphy Peele.”

  “The right thing?” Sylvie considered this. “Probably.”

  “Peele’s got a long record with the police,” Frannie said. “I doubt he holds them in high esteem.”

  “He might clam up.” I glanced at my aunt and grandma, hoping we were of a same mind, scary as that was. “Unless we got to him first.”

  Frannie closed the lid of her laptop. “I’ve already got road snacks packed in my purse.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s only a ten minute drive.”

  “Long enough to work up an appetite.” Sylvie walked toward the door. “Crime-fighting is hungry business.”

  42

  One wouldn’t call Murphy Peele’s property a farm, but more of an acreage. The skeletal re
mains of chicken houses and a wizened barn swaying in the breeze stood like faded tattoos of more bountiful years. A rusted mailbox flagged his dirt driveway, and my windshield wipers slipped back and forth, revealing the view of the single-wide trailer Murphy called home. A child’s wagon waited in the middle of the yard among tall weeds in need of a good haircut. Missing a wheel, the wagon listed to one side as if too tired to stand. I didn’t know if Murphy still lived in the trailer or if he’d already packed up his belongings and sensibly left town.

  Umbrellas in hand, Sylvie, Frannie, and I got out and walked to the front door in a single file line, an army of resolute lady power. We were problem solvers. Truth seekers. Women who pursued justice.

  “I just stepped in gum.” I stopped my swagger long enough to check out the bottom of my heel. “Shoot”

  “Don’t give your aunt any ideas.” Sylvie said.

  The scent of stale cigarettes wafted from a Folgers can of butts as we approached the front door. A glimmer of movement caught my eye, and I saw the tattered curtains in a nearby window move.

  “Did you see that?” I whispered to my posse.

  “Yep,” Sylvie said. “The perp is most likely in residence.”

  The wooden front door barely held onto its gray paint, and it looked like it was one swift kick away from retirement. Not seeing a doorbell, I knocked loudly, then listened for signs of life from within.

  “I’ve got a camera the size of a rice grain,” Sylvie said, “and I see just the place for a good install.”

  I knocked again. “I know you’re in there, Mr. Peele.” I had no such certainty, but it seemed like a prudent thing to say. “We just want to talk to you.”

  “Want us to break the door down?” Frannie asked.

  “Not really.”

  “I’ve got this little gadget in my purse—”

  I pounded on the door one last time, my hand smacking against the splintered wood. “Mr. Peele, my name is Paisley Sutton!” I hollered so loud it disturbed a flock of birds in a nearby tree. “I know it was you who nearly ran me over in that car you’ve got hidden in a barn. You know who doesn’t realize that yet? The police. Unless you open your door and talk to us, we’re calling them right now. One. . .two . . .