Mac grunted, then began backing up, sliding a cardboard box out with him. I leaned over to check the writing on the top: Pyrex dishes—red and yellow, was written in Avery’s angular printing. “Thank you,” he said.
A dust bunny was stuck to the side of his head above his left ear. I brushed it away with my hand. “The dust bunnies are organizing in there,” I said.
“I think they’re more like dust elephants,” Mac said, standing up and brushing more bits off his shirt.
Mr. P. came toward us, headed for the stairs with a round metal tin in his hands. “Good morning, Mac,” he said.
Mac smiled at the older man. “Good morning.” He craned his neck in the direction of the green-and-gold tin. “Did Rose make coffee cake?”
“No. I made date squares,” Mr. P. said. “Would you like to try one?”
“Yes, I would,” Mac said.
I leaned sideways into their line of sight. Mr. P. smiled. “Would you like one as well, Sarah?” he asked.
“Please,” I said.
“And a cup of coffee, of course.”
I nodded.
“Could I help?” Mac asked.
Mr. P. waved away the offer. “No, no. Finish what you were doing. I’ll be right back.” He headed up the stairs.
“What do you need the casserole dishes for?” I asked.
“Remember the guys who bought the armoire?” Mac said.
I nodded.
“They’re hosting a wedding—a very small one—next weekend, and they were looking for more of these dishes, and possibly several wooden chairs.”
“Chairs we have,” I said, thinking there had to be a dozen outside in the garage.
“I thought I’d get Avery to bring in four or five and make sure they’re dusted, just in case,” he said.
“Fine with me.”
Mac glanced over at the stairs. “Are you going with them to talk to the trainer?”
I nodded.
“What can I do?” he asked.
“Cross your fingers that we come up with some answers,” I said as Mr. P. appeared at the top of the stairs carrying two mugs, followed by Rose with the date squares.
Mac and I had our coffee out at the workbench and went over the estimate I’d come up with for getting Clayton McNamara’s house organized. The date squares were excellent and Mr. P. beamed when I told him so.
Just before nine thirty I went upstairs to get my purse and put on a bit of lipstick. Elvis was lying in the center of my desk, paws curled lazily in against his chest, half on the list of Web site orders that needed to be packed. “No, no, don’t move on my account,” I said. The cat’s response was to roll on his side so he was covering almost the entire sheet of paper.
“You could take that down to Charlotte later,” I said, tapping the one visible corner of the page.
“Mrr,” he said, wrinkling his scarred black nose at me.
I got my keys and my purse and headed downstairs. Rose and Mr. P. were waiting by the back door.
Michael Vega and his wife lived in a two-story farmhouse-style home close to the downtown. The house had a small addition with a wide, shaded verandah and an attached barn. A carved gargoyle sat on the front corner of the verandah roof. Someone had a sense of humor, I thought.
Michael Vega answered the door. He was just above average height, an inch or so below six feet, I guessed. He had cropped dark hair, a day’s worth of stubble on his face and the strong, muscled build of someone who worked out with weights, not the rangy body of a hard-core long-distance runner, I noted.
Mr. P. introduced himself, offering his private investigator’s license as ID.
“Does this have anything to do with Leesa Cameron?” Vega asked.
“Yes, it does,” Mr. P. said.
He nodded as though that had been the answer he was expecting. “Come in, please,” he said.
We stepped into a living room with gleaming dark-wood floors and sunshine streaming through the windows. The space was neat without being fussy. Two sofas were at right angles to each other. A marble-topped table in the front window was covered with plants, and there was a stack of kids’ picture books on the low coffee table.
A woman appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. She was curvy and petite, barefoot, with her dark hair piled on top of her head and paint on her black tank top. “Hello,” she said, walking over to join what had to be her husband. She had a warm smile, and I couldn’t see any tension between the two of them.
Michael introduced us. “This is my wife, Caroline,” he said. She touched his shoulder as she perched on the arm of the closest couch.
“Please sit down,” she said.
“They’re here about Leesa Cameron,” Michael said, making the introductions.
His wife nodded. “I thought so.”
“Mrs. Cameron hired you to train her,” Mr. P. said, getting right to the point.
Michael sat down on a black leather footstool that was placed in front of a wooden rocking chair with an upholstered seat and back. “Yes. I was training Leesa to run a half marathon as a surprise for her husband because Jeff was such an avid runner.” He rubbed a hand over his neck. “I’m sorry. I’m having a hard time believing she killed him.”
“Why did she hire you?” Rose asked. She gave him her best sweet little old lady smile. “I’m not doubting your skill as a trainer; it’s just that the Camerons belonged to a gym. Why wouldn’t she use one of their trainers?”
“I asked her that,” he said. “She told me that she wanted to surprise her husband and he knew both the trainers at the gym. She felt if she went to either of them Jeff would find out and it would ruin the surprise.”
“Did you think that was odd?” Mr. P. asked, frowning a little behind his wire-framed glasses.
Michael smiled. “I trained a woman once to run a full marathon—twenty-six point two miles. Her family didn’t know what was going on until they got to the race, supposedly just to watch, and she peeled off her hoodie and sweatpants and showed them her number.”
“Some people don’t want the added pressure of their family’s expectations when they’re trying to get in shape or reach a goal,” Caroline Vega said.
I studied Michael Vega. My instinct was that there was no way he’d been having an affair with Leesa Cameron. There was nothing evasive in his answers or his body language.
“When did you last speak to Leesa?” Mr. P. asked.
“We ran last Wednesday morning. It was a short run, though.”
“Was she getting the miles in?” I asked.
Michael turned his attention to me. “Yes, she was. She wasn’t a natural runner—you know she’d been a rower?”
I nodded.
“Her gait was a little awkward and she was still behind the time mileposts we’d set, but she was determined.”
“I spoke to her Wednesday night,” Caroline said. “She called looking for Michael. He was filling in, teaching fitness classes for a friend whose wife just had a baby, so he wasn’t answering his cell phone.”
“Do you have any idea what time she called?” Rose asked.
Caroline tucked one leg up underneath her. “I do. I was right there on that sofa watching Gotta Dance.” She grinned and ducked her head. “My guilty pleasure. The kids are with Michael’s mom for the week and I’ve been painting quite late, so I fell asleep in front of the TV. The phone woke me up. The end credits were just rolling on the screen.”
I pointed at the bold abstract canvas on the end wall of the room. “Is that your work?”
“Yes,” she said, a smile spreading across her face.
“You’re very talented,” I said.
The painting, all shades of green and blue, had been drawing my attention since we’d stepped into the room.
“Yes, she is,” Michael agreed, reaching out a hand to touch his wife’s leg. It was impossible to miss the easy, loving rapport between the two of them.
“Did she leave any message?” Mr. P. asked.
Caroline shifted her gaze to him. “She wanted Michael to know she wasn’t going to train anymore. She’d paid for the month but she wasn’t looking for a refund. She said to tell Michael to keep the money because she was canceling on short notice.”