Thank you for accompanying me today. I know you have a county to take care of.” She grabbed her purse and briefcase.
“Today, I’m taking care of you. No protests.” He motioned for her to exit the room and he followed her downstairs where she ate poached eggs and he helped himself to a stack of pancakes. “We better hit the road if we want to make that ten o’clock appointment.”
“I’d like to take my car. I don’t want to make it obvious I’m investigating, and riding around in a sheriff’s vehicle does exactly that—although by now all of Richfield knows. It’s not much bigger than Hope.” Aurora pulled her scarf tight around her neck as he paid, then they walked to the Tahoe.
“You want to drive your keyed car around? I can run it by Wallace’s shop. Get it repainted. Set you up with a rental.”
“I thought about having it fixed, but then I figured someone might do something else to it and I might as well wait until the threats die down and have it repaired in one fell swoop. Besides, I need whoever did it to know it doesn’t bother me.”
“You worry too much about what people think.”
She clicked her seat belt in place and brushed invisible lint from her pant leg, then stared straight ahead.
Someone had done a number on her. Her false sense of security tugged at something deep within him. The pretty redhead wasn’t fooling him. She was guarding herself from further pain. Pretending to be immune. A sudden urge to take that torment away knocked him full force. He shouldn’t be having these feelings. Not for defense attorney Aurora Daniels. “We’ll pick up your car and you can follow me to the station. I’ll leave my vehicle there.”
Twenty minutes later, they were on the road to Richfield, Mississippi. They made small talk, avoiding their professions. He talked a little about the navy. About his best friend, Wilder. She shared a few stories from law school and how she came to a vast knowledge about cars. Her grandfather and Richie had been mechanics. She’d liked spending time with them both. They hit 15 South and came into Richfield.
“So, I...didn’t have a lot growing up. And I kind of got picked on in school. If you’re expecting to see lots of hugs and me connecting with tons of friends, you won’t. The day I graduated, I flew this coop so fast your head would spin.”
Beckett couldn’t imagine a woman as sharp, bright and beautiful as Aurora being bullied. “Financial status shouldn’t dictate your social status. My mom and dad divorced when I was only three. He moved to California and pretty much wrote us off. I understand not coming from much. Mama worked three jobs and an extra part-time at Christmas to make sure I got what I wrote to Santa for.”
Aurora’s expression was knowing and kind. “If we got Christmas presents, we got them from my grandfather. But he died when I was fifteen. I admit, I’m kind of glad. Seeing Richie go to prison for a crime he didn’t commit would have killed him.”
He hadn’t even asked. “What was he convicted of?”
Aurora heaved a breath. “Murder. Second degree.”
Murder. Well, this brought the attacks into a new light. Aurora had mentioned that someone had been in her office nosing through her files. Beckett didn’t like it, but he hadn’t expected it to link to this case. If Richie was innocent—and Beckett wasn’t so sure—then the real killer was out there. He was probably from this town and knew that Aurora was poking around.
“Can you give me the rundown of the case?” Beckett shifted in the passenger seat, his legs cramping.
“The file box is back there—grab it if you want. We’re heading to a café to meet with Detective Holmstead.”
Beckett grabbed a thick folder from the box and flipped it open. “Dwight Holmstead?”
“Yep.”
Beckett skimmed the contents. “Gus McGregor. Killed in his own shop. Blunt force trauma to the back of the head. Murder weapon was a wrench.”
“They didn’t find any prints except Gus’s and Richie’s, but he employed four other mechanics. Any one of them could have worn gloves. Or they could have used another wrench and planted that one at the scene of the crime.”
Beckett had some doubt. “Gus’s blood was found on this wrench and it was lying near the body. That’s clearly the murder weapon.”
Aurora white-knuckled the wheel. “Not enough blood to determine if it was the murder weapon, but enough to prove he had indeed bled on it. Not even a trace of scalp or skull. There could be another weapon out there. With more than a few traces of Gus’s blood. But the public defender didn’t even bring that up. And why would someone leave a murder weapon lying right there?”
Beckett grunted as he scanned statements from four witnesses stating Richie had been in the local bar drinking—inebriation would be a great reason to leave a murder weapon on the scene—and spouting off that Gus had swindled him out of several hundred dollars of pay. “A witness testified that she heard Richie say he was going over to Gus’s to ‘get his.’”
“So what. He didn’t go, and no one can validate that he did.”
“Can’t prove he didn’t.”
She huffed as she whipped into a parking lot. “Can you not say anything? You’re here as a...a bodyguard not a lawman. In fact, maybe come in ten minutes after me and sit at a table alone.”
He laughed. “This is a small town. You think people aren’t gonna figure out we’re together because we sit at separate tables? I’ll be quiet.”
She snorted and snatched the file from Beckett. “I’m here to establish my brother didn’t do it. Remember that.”
“Noted.” He pointed to his temple. “Like an elephant, I am.”
“I’d go with mule, but...” She smirked and stepped into icebox-like weather. Beckett followed her inside the small café. The smell of spices, down-home cooking and camaraderie clung to the air. A few patrons acknowledged them, then returned to their meals and conversation.
An older man—average height, thick gray hair and curious eyes—waved at Aurora. Beckett trailed behind and waited for her to make introductions. She introduced him to Dwight as her colleague, Beckett Marsh. Beckett held in a laugh. Dwight sized him up and nodded, then offered them a seat and encouraged them to order a piece of pie. Chocolate. Beckett accepted.
“Aurora, I appreciate your tenacity, hon. I do. I’m sorry for what happened to Richie, but this case is cut-and-dried.”
Hon wasn’t going to fly with the counselor. She’d see it as patronizing.
Aurora bristled.
Yep.
She stretched across the table, palms down. “Dwight, I don’t care if you appreciate me or not. Richie didn’t kill Gus. I know he got in a fair amount of trouble. I know you often hauled him home instead of tossing him in the clink. But that doesn’t mean he was a murderer.”
Dwight mashed a few piecrust crumbs onto his fork and slid them into his mouth. “I don’t know anything new.”
“Gus gambled. I know it all happened in the back of his garage, and several citizens of Richfield, who would be sorely ashamed if the news got out, joined in. One happens to be a deacon of a local church. Don’t deny it. My one source is reliable.”
Who was her source?
“Yet, he wasn’t questioned,” Aurora continued. “None of those men were. What if Gus cheated them out of money like he did my brother?”
Dwight handed his plate to the server as she set Beckett’s pie in front of him. When she left, Dwight clucked his tongue in his cheek. “They played some cards. So what? It was all friendly. The evidence points to Richie. He had motive.”
“He wasn’t there that night! His prints were, and they