“Did you meet with Winston?” I asked Michael as we walked to the edge of the roof, stopping when we reached the ladder resting against the house.
“Yeah. But I’m not supposed to say a word about what was said.” He mimed zipping his lips.
I laughed. “He said that to me too. But what are the chances that we aren’t going to tell each other?” I asked, though sometimes I wondered if my siblings had kept secrets from me, as I had from them. Would John Winston be privy to those secrets if they had them? “What did he ask you?”
With his sunglasses shielding his eyes, Michael answered matter-of-factly. “Any new friends. Anything I remember,” he said, repeating what the detective had asked me. “But he also asked about Luke.”
The hair on the back of my neck prickled at the mention of our mother’s lover, a local piano teacher. “What about him?”
Michael sneered. “Wanted to know what I knew about their relationship. Like I had a clue about the affair. Isn’t that the point of an affair? It was all in secret.”
“Did Winston say he thinks Luke was involved?”
Michael shook his head. “Nah. That man just asks questions. Didn’t share any details. And I have no idea if Luke was a part of it. They cleared him at the time, but who the heck knows?”
“Got any new theories on why they reopened the case?” We’d already speculated for hours after the detectives showed up at Shannon and Brent’s wedding celebration at our grandparents’ house a week ago and dropped the bomb about the investigation’s new life. “It’s frustrating that they know something but won’t tell us.”
Michael pushed down his sunglasses, meeting my eyes. “I bet they think someone else helped plan the murder.”
“You think Mom will get out of prison?” My voice rose with a touch of hope that I knew would piss off my brother. Michael had cut off our mom. He didn’t visit her. Didn’t talk to her. Her guilt was crystal clear to him.
But the world wasn’t black and white to me. I’d seen and heard other sides to the story. The side our mom hadn’t told anyone else.
Michael scoffed. “Her fingerprints are all over everything. She’s not innocent, not in the least. But there might be others who are guilty too, beyond her and Stefano. Murder for hire isn’t a to-go order. You don’t walk into a store and order a hit with fries on the side.” Michael shook his head, as if to chase the thought away. “Now, let’s get this wood down to your truck, so we can take it to green recycling.”
That was apparently all the discussion Michael wanted to entertain about the investigation. But I wasn’t ready to drop the subject. “You learned that from your police shows?” I asked, teasing my brother.
“Diehard CSI fan. Now let’s get off the roof. I’m hot, and I need a beer.”
I hefted a few chunks of wood under my arm. “You let me know when the next episode of Law and Order helps you solve the mystery, ’kay?”
Thirty minutes later, we’d finished loading the bed of my truck with the chopped-up tree trunk, and Sanders had come out of the house to survey our progress.
“Ah, youth. I remember the days when I could have done that,” Sanders said wistfully, one hand parked on the side of the truck door.
“You pining for lifting tree trunks or other things we strapping young studs can do?” I teased.
“That part works just fine.” His expression shifted to gratitude. “But I appreciate you coming by to help out. Couldn’t do this without you lads, clearly.”
“You know we’re always happy to help,” I said.
At sixty-one, Sanders had spent his career as a mechanic bent over hoods or under engines, which had taken its toll on the man. With a bad back, and his own sons scattered across the United States and back home in Ireland, he leaned on us for heavy lifting from time to time.
“Let me treat you to a beer,” Sanders said, clapping me on the shoulder.
“I’m always game for a brew. And Michael was already hankering for one.”
“Wait till you experience the AC in my house. It was on the fritz, and I fixed it myself the other day. Impressed Mrs. Doyle quite a bit with that handiwork.”
“And you need to with the way she was pissed about your speeding ticket the other month. You do know they have apps now that tell you where the speed traps are,” I said as we reached the side gate to the backyard.
Sanders shrugged, a little helplessly. “I know, I know. What can I say? I was getting tired and was eager to get home, so I gunned the engine. The highway looked free and clear. You’d think four decades of driving would have taught me to look out better for a state trooper. Especially in California. They bust your balls there.”
“There’s a first time for everything. Congrats on your first speeding ticket.”
Sanders quieted as we reached the deck where Becky waited, shielding her eyes as she waved. “I’ve got cold beer for my favorite handymen.”
“You are the best, Mrs. Doyle,” I said. “I’d give you a big hug, but I’m sweaty and gross.”
“I’m not,” Michael said, elbowing me as he moved in for an embrace. “I’ll hug you.”
Sanders stepped in front of both of us.
“Now, now. Keep your mitts off my lady. She’s liable to leave me for one of you,” Sanders said with narrowed eyes. “I’ll be the only sweaty man touching her.” He draped an arm around Becky and planted a kiss on her cheek. She smiled at him, then led us into the house.
Cool air blasted my hot skin. “This is heaven,” I said with a relaxed sigh.
Becky handed beer bottles to Michael and me. “Glad you enjoy it.”
“Now it’s really heaven,” Michael said, then knocked back some of the beer.
Sanders squeezed his wife’s shoulder possessively. “Only four more months till I can spend my days drinking beer and lounging on the pool deck as we circle the Bahamas.”
Becky smiled. “I can’t wait. We’re going on a cruise for three whole weeks. It’s been a dream my whole life.”
“Just make sure they don’t make you do time for your speeding ticket before you go,” I teased.
Sanders tensed, his spine straightening at those words. “Course not. It was just speeding.”
“Sure. What else would it be?” I asked, with a laugh.
“Let’s not talk about the trip to California right now,” Becky said in a quiet but firm voice that brooked no argument. She turned away, the set of her jaw tight. I glanced briefly at Sanders, who was rubbing his wife’s arm, then at my brother. Michael shrugged a shoulder.
I had no clue why the speeding ticket had touched such a nerve for the Doyles.
But the weird glances, the needy reassurance, the mix of worry and admonishment—those were all reminders of why I steered clear of relationships. They were trouble. Women needed soothing and tending to, and those were just not things I was good at.
I was, however, quite good in other areas, and there was a woman who seemed fond of those skills. A woman I’d be seeing tomorrow.
I couldn’t wait.
8