“Hi,” he said. “I’m Detective Liam Beverly.”
“Oh,” I said, a smile tugging at the side of my lip. I was happy he’d finally arrived. “I think I’m waiting for you.”
chapter
EIGHT
His eyes were the color of pistachio ice cream, even down to the flecks of gold. Not as cold, but they seemed all about business. They bore into mine and held my gaze. Long enough to make me feel uncomfortable. My smile faded and I opened my mouth to speak, but he didn’t give me time. Without missing a beat, he started ticking off questions.
“You found the body?”
“I did.”
“What’s your name?” he asked. He took no notes. I guessed he had a better memory than the police officer.
“Win,” I said, then thought this conversation probably wasn’t going to be informal, and I shouldn’t be either. “Bronwyn. Bronwyn Crewse.”
He pointed up to the awning over the store. “As in . . .”
“Yep.” I nodded my head. “Yes,” I corrected, remembering this was official.
“And what were you doing down at the falls?” He cocked his head, his jaw tight, face expressionless. “It’s pretty bad out tonight.”
“I wanted to get snow,” I said. I held up my bowl and scoop, realizing how silly it was for me to be clinging on to them.
“Snow?” he asked, and tilted his head to the other side.
“To make ice cream.”
“Lots of snow up here.” He stomped his feet one at a time. “You couldn’t use any of it?”
“Wasn’t the right kind,” I said. “Plus”—I pointed to his feet—“it’s been walked on.”
He pursed his lips and nodded his head slowly as if he was processing what I’d said. Fortunately for me—I was cold and tired of answering the same questions—he hadn’t come up with a response or another question before one of the police officers walked up beside us and got his attention. The detective, turning to speak with the officer, brushed his shoulder against mine and left it there. I sidestepped the other way.
“EMS is ready to go,” the officer said.
“Has the body been identified?” Detective Beverly asked, looking past the officer, over at the ambulance, and giving a head nod.
“Nope.” The police officer dug his hands in his pockets and shook his head. “We didn’t find any ID on him.”
“Do you know who he was?”
“Me?” I raised my eyebrows and turned my gaze from the police officer back to the detective. He was back to questioning me.
“Yes. You,” he said, a small grin curling up his lip.
“Oh, no. I don’t think so.” I shook my head. “I didn’t see—couldn’t see—his face down by the falls. It was too dark.”
“Win, are you okay?” It was my mother. Finally. I was happy to see her. I turned from the tête-a-tête with the detective.
“Mom,” I said, grabbing on to her. I was taller than she was, and pulled her head close into my chest for a hug. She smelled like flowers and sandalwood. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“What happened?” she said.
“Where’s Dad?” I asked.
“Uhm.” She pulled away from me and looked around like she’d find him close by. “He’s coming. I tried to wait for him, but I wanted to get to you. He’ll be here soon.”
“He was at work?” I asked. He didn’t usually get home so late.
“It’s okay,” my mother said, not answering my question. “I’m here. Now tell me what happened.”
“I don’t know, Mom. I went down by the falls to get some snow, and I tripped over this guy.”
“What guy?”
“I don’t know,” I said, hunching my shoulders. I leaned in and whispered to her. “He’s dead. They had him in a body bag.”
“Oh my,” she said, and held her palm up to her cheek.
“Hel-lo.” Detective Beverly turned to face us, drawing out the word.
“Hi,” my mother said, and stuck out her hand. “I’m Bronwyn’s mother. Ailbhe Crewse.”
“You make ice cream, too?” he asked, shaking the hand she had offered.
“I do,” she said.
“Out of snow?”
My mother gave me a crooked smile, then looked back at the detective, narrowing her eyes. “No,” she said.
“Bronwyn—can I call you that?” he asked. “Or do you prefer Win?”
“Bronwyn is fine,” I said. I didn’t feel like being friendly, and I’d already decided this was all official.
“Was there anyone else out tonight?” he asked. “Anyone that may have seen you or the gentleman you found?”
My mind and my eyes wandered back to Ms. Devereaux and her store. He got what he deserved . . . She had to know who he was, otherwise how would she know that he’d merited his fate?
The store was set directly in front of Bell Street.
Maybe she had seen something. But when I brought my eyes back to meet with the detective’s, I saw that scarf.
The multicolored one.
It was wrapped around the neck of a young boy. Probably the young boy I’d spotted under the streetlight as he’d scrambled back up the hill coming up from the falls. A woman stood behind him, her hands on his shoulders.
“He may know something,” I said, and led the detective in the direction of the boy with my eyes.
Detective Beverly looked over his shoulder, following my gaze, then turned back to me. “Who?” he asked.
“That little boy,” I said. “I saw him down by the falls.”
“You saw him?”
“I think I did,” I said, and focused my gaze on him. “I saw his scarf.”
“Hold on.” He turned to the officer and asked him to go and get the boy.
I heard the detective say something to me, but my attention was on the boy and the woman. Through the sea of faces and movement, it seemed that briefly her eyes had locked with mine. It was as if she knew, somehow, that I had spoken about her—or the child—and she started to edge away.
The officer must have radioed his intent, because before he got to her, another officer came up behind her. He leaned in and spoke to her. I saw her acknowledge the officer as he headed over.