A Binding Chance

Chapter 4

I leaned against the brick building of Old Treasures, watching from under the awning’s cover as I played with my necklace charm. A light wind and the shade helped cool me from the East Tennessee heat. Activity on Copper Street had come to a halt. Men and women in blue uniforms secured the scene with their vehicles and orange cones. Drivers diverted on side streets to avoid the blockage while store employees and familiar shoppers dotted the sidewalk, staring in disbelief.

Sevier Oak was a simple town tucked in a valley of the Smoky Mountains and named after the heavily forested habitat. People often overlooked the small town due to its lack of attractions, and miniscule population. Neighboring towns often describe Sevier Oak as “the middle of nowhere.” Regardless of our size, it never stopped folks from grabbing a quick bite to eat before continuing to the nearest city, Bristol.

My hometown had a historical vibe, especially Copper Street and the roads leading off from it. The brick buildings surrounding the main strip were built in the early 1900s. This used to be the heart of Sevier Oak. There were once a d**g, hardware, dry goods, general store, and a hotel where people stayed for two dollars a night. I knew that because the original owners had painted the price on the brick, which held up over the years. Those stores moved elsewhere in Sevier Oak while others moved into its place, yet the post office and courthouse remained in the same structure. The inside changed to meet the needs of modern-day, but not the framework. From where I stood, I saw the courthouse. The tall white columns, cupola, and flag poles were beautiful among the greenery planted nearby.

American Elm trees dotted Copper Street in between light posts. The facades of the stores had large bay windows while the upper level possessed three to five rectangular windows. Despite the heat, the landscaping looked stunning. I always thought bright green and faded red looked good together.

As a crowd grew on Copper Street, it reminded me of the town’s most famous trait. Nosiness. I, on the other hand, knew how to maintain a balance. Growing up in a law enforcement family taught me to look out for my friends and neighbors. Yet I also knew gossip spread wild and thick, like butter melting on corn-on-the-cob. In my town, we don’t look from the corner of our eyes, pretending we’re not watching. In the south we stop and stare. Some people recorded the scene with their cell phones raised while others possessed the skill of watching and texting at the same time.

Megan, my best friend probably heard the news before I had a chance to tell her.

I rubbed my face, feeling sweat forming on my back. Fortunately, my platinum hair didn’t hold onto heat, like it used to when I had embraced my natural black hair. For now, I sucked it up and continued waiting. I knew all too well that police procedures took time. Dad, Onyx Stone was a cop here before transferring to Nashville as a detective and my grandpa was the town’s police chief.

At any moment, I expected to see Stone, my grandpa, emerging from the crowd. His bald head matched his no-nonsense demeanor. Last summer he retired as the police chief and became plain Sterling Stone. From an early age my family taught me to respect law enforcement, and to call my grandfather, Chief Stone or just Stone. Even Dad called his father, Stone. After twenty-two years, I couldn’t call him anything else.

While keeping an eye out for Stone, I scanned the street, ignoring the looky-loos. In the corner of my eye, I spotted Jane Jackson. She paced while fanning herself. Looking at her gray suit made me feel sweatier. Despite the breeze and cloud cover, sweat ran down my neck. I was still bitter about the store closing, but I also didn’t want her to pass out. When a cop looked in my direction, I would get their attention for Jane’s sake.

While I watched the officers, my thoughts dwelling on what had happened. Doris Hackett was dead. Her lifeless body in the aisle flashed to mind. While calling for help, I had studied the blood on her forehead. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the cause of death had been from a blow to the head. I heard plenty of stories from Dad and Stone to know that Doris’s death was no accident. Someone hit her. But who? My eyes directed to the only other person in the bookstore.

But who?Jane Jackson.

But how? She had been upstairs when Doris was killed. Jane couldn’t run down a flight of stairs in stilettos, kill Doris, and rush back only to crash into me moments later.

Could she?

Could she?Or had more time passed when I first heard Doris’s cry and ran to the bargain room?

Let the police handle this, I told myself while clutching my necklace.

Let the police handle thisTo stop my mind from racing I stared into the distance. I spotted the top of a certain building. The tall concrete structure clashed against the bricks. I glared at it, fearing what the bookstore’s rival would think. A celebration would be my guess.

Drake Voss owned Voss-of-Books. To me, the name sounded cheesy rather than being a clever play on the founder’s last name. Voss-of-Books was a southern bookstore chain and quickly growing in numbers, mostly in Georgia, and the Carolinas. When Drake decided to build one in Sevier Oak two years ago, Teresa welcomed him with open arms. She believed the owner loved stories as much as she did. After their first encounter, it became clear that Drake Voss only loved money. I wasn’t surprised by his greed because he wore fitted suits. Drake had offered to buy Teresa’s Bookstore on several occasions. Thankfully, my beloved boss never surrendered.

I shifted to avoid seeing the building’s roof. My eyes landed on Jane. Could this day be any more stressful?

Could this day be any more stressful?Clara Hackett, Doris’s sister, emerged from the crowd. Misfortune must have heard and struck. I groaned. She stormed towards the bookstore. Her face was beet red, either from the summer heat or from the devastating news. I had a feeling it was the latter. An officer met her halfway. With her hands firmly placed on her hips, Clara listened as the officer explained what had happened. She suddenly buried her face into her hands. My heart ached for her. I didn’t believe the Hackett sisters were close, nevertheless, death wasn’t a joyous occasion.

Then Clara marched around the officer before a second one blocked her path. “Give me my sister’s keys,” she demanded, holding out her hand. “All her stuff now belongs to me. Go find Doris’s purse. Her keys are inside.”

A third officer appeared. The other two officers stepped aside, letting him deal with Miss Hackett. If I hadn’t known Deputy Idris Underwood as one of Dad’s closest friends, I would be nervous about him too. Underwood’s deep voice alone could end bar fights according to Dad"s stories.

“Doris’s belongings are evidence now,” Underwood boomed.

Clara took a step back, probably surprised at his tone. “Well, I,” she stumbled over her own words. After a few moments, she found her courage. “Doris was my sister, and as her only living relative, her stuff has to be mine now.” She stuck out her chin as if her words held more authority.

I rolled my eyes and slightly shook my head. Once Underwood put his foot down, there was no changing his decision. Dad’s stories didn’t have to teach me about his obstinateness. I had witnessed it when Underwood was the high school’s umpire. He didn’t take any crap from parents, fans, or anybody in that matter. Once his own wife heckled him over a called strike with their son up to bat. To this day, he still claims he made the right call.

Something moved beside me, causing me to jump. I looked over and saw Preston Powell standing next to me. He smelled like a mixture of sweat and sawdust, not a pleasant odor. A dirty, reddish rag was tied around one hand. His work boots had seen better days. Duct tape wrapped around the front section of one boot while the other looked faded. Paint splatter decorated his blue jeans. I couldn’t help noticing a hole in one of his back pockets. Quickly I looked away. Preston had to be around Dad’s age if not older.

Preston faced me. “What’s going on?” He pointed with his thumb. A subtle chuckle crept into his voice. “What’s Clara-Bell so upset about that brought the entire police squad?”

I opened my mouth to answer and snapped it shut. I almost forgot that Preston was Doris’s ex-husband.

Preston tilted his head, waiting for a response. I chose my next words carefully. “There was an accident. I had to call the police.” I rather not break the news about Doris’s death.

Before Preston could answer, Clara screaming and gesturing wildly at Underwood caught his attention.

Preston chuckled harder. “Trust Clara-Bell to stick her nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Between the police having their hands full and Preston finding humor in Clara’s reason for being upset, I decided to tell him the truth.

“I’m sorry to tell you, but Doris is dead.”

I studied his expression. Even though they have been divorced for some time, I would have expected him to show some remorse. Instead, Preston grunted before smirking.

“Good riddance.”

Guess I worried for nothing.

Guess I worried for nothing.While Preston watched Clara argue with Underwood, I counted the years since their divorce. Four. I remembered the timeline because Teresa invited me to a private business party during their ugly divorce. Other than standard business chit-chat, nearly every conversation at the party had steered toward the Powells. Most people took Preston’s side, including me. The evening was nearly ruined because Drake Voss and his grandson crashed the event. Teresa sent the Voss men out, causing more tension between the bookstore owners. Thankfully, people quickly forgot about the spat because someone got a text about Doris having an affair. The rest of the evening became an endless game of guess who.

Finally, Clara walked away from Underwood. Her eyes landed on Preston. I had a bad feeling when she marched toward us. Underwood came closer and stopped. He crossed his arms over his chest, watching.

“You killed her,” Clara accused Preston.

Preston looked as taken back as me. Killed Doris? How? Clara must have misheard something. I glanced at Underwood. His face gave nothing away.

Killed Doris? How?Doris’s ex-husband quickly collected himself. He replied, “Only a crazy woman would think that. I didn’t know Doris was here. I was working next door.” Preston pointed behind him with his bandaged hand.

“Still?” I mumbled under my breath. Karl, the owner next to the bookstore and Old Treasures, had hired Preston two months ago to repair the upstairs bathroom. Thankfully neither of them heard. I didn’t want to be a part of their quarrel.

“It’s always the husband,” Clara claimed.

“Ex-husband,” he corrected. “If your case is based on her latest lover, then you actually mean Mateo. The boy-toy.”

ExThat shut Clara up. Her eyes searched around as if she was mentally struggling for a comeback. Preston wasn’t wrong. Mateo was the main reason the Powells divorced.

“Murderer. Don’t come anywhere near me!” Clara screamed.

Preston laughed.

I glanced back at the deputy. Underwood shook his head, clearly seeing the drama ahead of him.

The officer, who first spoke to Clara minutes ago, escorted her near some parked squad cars while another took Preston aside. The former in-laws bickered as they went their separate ways. It reminded me of an episode of The Jerry Springer Show. Except, the guests didn’t care about the main concern. Doris was dead. Clara believed she would inherit everything. Maybe that was the real reason Preston didn’t care. He knew neither of them would see a penny of Doris’s lottery winnings.

“Garnet, are you alright?” a deep voice asked.

Deputy Underwood now stood next to me. My head came to the baseline of his neck. I felt like a penguin standing next to a robust ostrich.

I turned away from Clara and Preston. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

Behind his sunglasses, I knew Underwood was giving me a look. The same one Dad always gave when he suspected something was bothering me. For a moment, I wondered if Underwood learned it from Dad or, if it was the other way around.

“Just shaken up. What happened?” I nodded toward the bookstore.

A woman, who I assumed to be the medical examiner, walked out of the store. Behind her, workers in uniform rolled a stretcher. I focused my attention on Underwood. I didn’t want to see the body bag.

The deputy pressed his lips before saying, “Doris Hackett was murdered.”

I suspected as much. “How?”

He lowered his voice. “Am I correct in saying that you had a good look at the scene?” I nodded yes, eagerly wanting to help with the investigation. “Then you noticed the strange manner surrounding her death?”

“Strange?” I felt less confident at what I had seen.

“We think the killer struck Doris in the back of her head with the tea kettle. A knife was found, but there’s no blood on it. Despite the objects on the scene, the coroner believes Doris was suffocated.”

“From the pillow?” I questioned, mentally recalling the small pillow next to the body.

“Correct.”

I soaked in the information. This was indeed strangeness as Underwood claimed. A tea kettle, a knife, and a pillow. It sounded like the start of a joke when random items or different people walked into a bar. But this wasn’t funny.

strangeness Sevier Oak hadn’t had a murder in years. Drama, yes. Rumors, yes. But not murder. The reason why Dad transferred to Nashville was to help in the homicide department.

Underwood pulled out his cellphone, tapped a few times, and looked at me. Back to being a deputy. First, he asked me the standard questions about my day, starting when I first arrived at Teresa’s Bookstore. I answered them truthfully, including the part about being fired.

Then he moved onto more specific questions. “Did the bookstore own a tea kettle?”

I liked how he asked if the bookstore did, rather than saying, Teresa. “Yes. Four of them. Well, five if you count the one in the storage room upstairs. That one has a cracked bottom. It leaks. One stayed in the break room. Teresa used it when she got in the mood for tea. The others were for decoration. Two sat on the bookshelves near the entrance and the last one…” A knot hardened itself in my throat. “It used to be in the front part of the store. At certain times of the day, it was blinding. I moved it to the bargain room after Teresa passed away.” I wished I threw it away instead of putting it in a windowless room.

bookstore “What does it look like?” he repeated the question.

“Bright yellow.”

More questions followed. I confirmed the pillow was one of Teresa’s projects. She liked fixing things. Most of the time she could, however, the number of projects far outnumbered the things she did repair. Stitching the ripped pillow was on her to do list. I’d last seen it in the receiving room where deliveries come through. Yes, I found it odd how the pillow made its way onto the sales floor, and no, Princess didn’t carry things. Teresa never kept weapons in her store, not even against shoplifters. She once said, if someone stole a book, then they probably needed it more than we needed the sale.

“Who’s the new gal?” Underwood nodded in Jane’s direction.

I glanced to our left. Jane stood in the same spot, staring at us. She didn’t look frightened anymore. She looked angry with her narrowed eyes.

“That’s the new boss, Teresa’s niece. Or my former boss, I should say. Her name is Jane Jackson.”

Underwood’s lips pressed harder. I could tell that he didn’t like Jane.

“Here she comes,” I warned seconds before Jane joined us. As she approached, I studied her outfit for any sign of blood spatters. I only saw a perfectly gray suit. But that didn’t rule her out as a suspect. She could have worn gloves and disposed of them while I called for help. Yet given the time frame, that seemed unlikely.

“What’s taking so long?” she demanded. “It was an accident. We witnessed it.” Her finger moved vigorously between herself and me. “The woman hit her head. Probably from all the clutter.” Jane glared at me as if Doris’s death had been my fault.

Did she not see the knife and blood on the tea kettle?

Underwood put his phone on his belt clip. “Evidence says otherwise.”

“What are you saying? Did the woman commit suicide?”

“I’m going to need to see your hands and arms.”

Jane’s eyes widened. “Excuse me? You think that woman was murdered, and I did it?” she said, half smiling. She looked at me, probably thinking I would come to her defense. Her humor disappeared when she realized I wasn’t. Those brown eyes shifted between Underwood and me before staying on Underwood. “You have no right to accuse me of any wrongdoing,” Jane continued. “I demand to know what happened in my bookstore.”

My jaw tightened hearing Jane say, “my bookstore.” I know she never stepped foot inside her aunt’s business until today. I didn’t recall a time when Teresa’s family visited. She always traveled to see them.

“This is a murder investigation,” Deputy Underwood said. “By not showing me your hands and arms, you’re giving me a reason to think that you’re hiding something.”

Jane removed her gray jacket, revealing her arms all the way up to her shoulders. No marks of any kind. Her French tip nails looked professionally done. If she killed Doris, she must have worn gloves. I struggled to recall if Teresa kept any upstairs.

“I don’t know that woman. Ask her.” Jane pointed at me.

Underwood tensed. “Her is your employee.” He scowled. “Her name is Garnet Stone. Respect the Stone.”

Her Jane looked unsure how to respond.

Another man in uniform joined our huddle. He dressed differently compared to the others. Instead of a navy uniform, like Underwood, he had on shades of green and tan. The sunglasses covered half of his face, making it impossible to read him. I assumed he was the new sheriff.

“This way.” The man grabbed Jane’s upper arm and escorted her away.

“Sheriff Estep,” Underwood muttered once they were out of earshot.

“He’s the new sheriff?” I watched them walk inside the bookstore. Sheriff Estep barked orders as they went. I didn’t like him. My father would agree, and he used to be a sheriff before he moved to the middle of the state.

I scanned the street. Clara and Preston were nowhere to be found. The crowd seemed to be smaller yet the number of law enforcement remained the same.

“How is Estep as a sheriff?” I asked before Underwood slipped away.

Again, Underwood pressed his lips, thinking. “Has your father mentioned anything about coming back?”

“That bad?” I asked.

“This is his first big case. Sheriff Estep wants to prove himself. There’s no better way than by solving a murder.”

“Tell me all the details,” I said, half-jokingly. “Maybe I can help you solve it.”

For the first time, he smirked. I waited for him to tell me something, even if it was to mind my own business. Once the silence became too much, I asked, “Nothing? Not even one teeny tiny clue?”

“I can’t go into details.”

“Because I’m a girl?” I placed my hands on my hips, hoping my stink eye came across as fierce rather than looking like a bug flew in my eye.

“No,” he said as a matter of fact, “your father and former Chief Stone wouldn’t appreciate me telling you gory details.” I eased my fierce face. I understood that logic. “And you’re also not on the task force.”

Before I could roll my eyes, a woman’s cry interrupted us. I looked up. Sheriff Estep was escorting Jane Jackson into the backseat of a police cruiser.

“I didn’t,” Jane protested.

Sheriff Estep slammed the door shut, silencing her.