It's not the right thing to say. Not really. Of course, it very rarely is. It's one of those phrases people have tucked into their vocabulary to stuff into situations that feel like they need something. One thing that grates on me to the point of physically shuddering when I hear it is people who attach 'I'm sorry' to the beginning of questions or to sentences that don't need them. I'm sorry, but what time is it? I'm sorry, can you tell me where you got your shoes? I'm sorry, but her wearing white at her wedding is a joke.
This isn't one of those times. I have an ache inside me for Jake and what he's going through and want him to know I'm here. But those words just aren't enough.
“How could he do that?” Jake mutters. “After all these years, why couldn't he just let well enough alone? With everything else this town is going through, what could he possibly get out of digging my father up and leaving him in that shed? He helped build that shed.”
I reach over with one hand to rub his back. No other words come to mind. All I can think of is the fragile-looking old man and try to understand how he could do something so grisly.
Chapter Thirteen
I drive past the turn to Jake's house and then down the main road, not stopping at the bar. He doesn't need to try to go back to work right now and being home won't do him any good. The familiar surroundings will only keep his mind spiraling. Instead, I drive back to the cabin. He sits with his head hanging, staring at his hands pressed between his knees even as I get out and walk around the front of the car.
“Come on inside,” I tell him.
He looks up for a second before climbing out and following me up onto the porch. His eyes sweep over the wood planks, and my stomach twists a little. Maybe walking him across an unsolved murder scene wasn't the most compassionate choice in this moment. But he doesn't seem bothered by it. He walks inside without a word and immediately drops down onto the couch. Quickly scooping the pictures off the table and tucking them in the compartment under it, I take off my shoes and curl up onto the cushion beside him.
“Can I make you a cup of coffee?” I ask a few silent seconds later
He nods, and I head into the kitchen. Beyond the window, the sky looks angry again. Within a few seconds, a mixture of cold rain and snowflakes starts coming down. The coffee pot gurgles and fills the room with the warm, reassuring scent. While it fills, I peek into a few of the cabinets to see if there's anything I can bring out with the coffee. I know there aren't any cookies or pastries sitting around, yet I still look. Maybe one of these times, it will spontaneously appear.
Settling for a few foil-wrapped truffles from a bowl on the counter, I carry everything back into the living room and offer a mug to him. Jake takes it and holds it between his strong hands but doesn't take a sip. I breathe in the warmth of the steam coming up off the dark surface of the brew, imagining the caffeine somehow traveling through the air and getting a head start by seeping into my lungs.
“My father was a very good businessman,” Jake suddenly says. “Maybe too good.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Setting my mug of coffee on the table, I unwrap one of the truffles.
“He was driven to succeed and worked extremely hard to make sure he always did what he set himself out to do. But he didn't take shortcuts. He wouldn't settle for anything less than excellence. No matter what element of the business he was handling, he did it with every bit of him. He took pride in treating customers well, being honest, and making sure they always got the best experience from him. That didn't always sit well with other people.”
“Why?”
“Small towns aren't always as sweet and innocent as people want to think they are. There are people in Feathered Nest who didn't have the same thoughts about business as my father. They thought only about themselves. They cut corners, did what they could to save money, and didn't care about the customers on the other end of their deals. Sometimes it was just unethical. Sometimes it was illegal. My father stood up for what he believed in, and it didn't matter who he had to cross to do it. A few people ended up in hot water because of it. Businesses closed or were forced to change their practices and make less money. Jail time.”
I shake my head. “I don't understand.”
“I don't know all the details of it, and a lot has been hushed up and brushed aside over the years. But I do know there were some suspicious deaths of farmhands and a lot of money rolling through the town. People were paying far more for their goods than they needed to, and nobody was saying anything about it.”
“Money laundering? Did the police get involved?” I ask.
“The Chief at the time was LaRoche's father,” Jake admits. “But he didn't seem surprised by any of it if you catch my drift.”
“He was in on it.”
“That's what some people around here think. But other people blamed my father for everything. They thought he should have left well enough alone and kept his nose out of things that didn't concern him. The tension remained for the rest of his life.”
“What about that man? His best friend? What would he have to do with any of this?” I ask.
“Cole Barnes was my father's best friend from way back. They were just kids together. When I was young, he was a fixture at our house and at family events. They did everything together, and if one needed something, anything, then the other was there to do anything he could,” Jake tells me. “But then that changed. Things started getting tense between them. Cole accused my father of betraying him.”
“Betraying him? What did he do?” I ask.
Cupping my mug in my palms, I let the warmth of the coffee seep through me. What Jake's telling me stirs up suspicions and unsteady feelings that have been growing inside me since arriving in Feathered Nest. I don't want to push too hard or ask too many questions and possibly reveal the real reason I'm here. Instead, I tuck away the little bits of information, so I'll be able to take them out and tumble them around later, figuring out what they could mean and where they fit in the puzzle I'm trying to solve.
“I don't know all the details. Secrets are secrets for a reason. My father didn't want to air other people's dirty laundry if he didn't have to. All I know is they had a falling out. A serious one, from the way the town talked about the two of them after that. Then, my father died.”
“How did he die?”
Jake shrugs and stares down into his mug like the coffee is going to reveal all the answers of the universe for him.
“That's a good question, isn't it?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“He was always the healthiest person I knew. Never sick a day in his life. Everyone else would get colds or stomach bugs, and it never once got him. He'd take care of all of us and keep going right about his life. Then, all of a sudden, he was sick as a dog. Just out of nowhere. One day he was perfectly fine like any other day, and the next, he was so sick he couldn't get out of bed. Stayed that way for three more days before we finally convinced him to go to the doctor. They couldn't help him, and he ended up in the hospital, where he died the next day. One of the doctors said it was the strangest thing he ever saw. They tested for a bunch of things, but couldn't find anything,” Jake tells me.
“Tested for a bunch of things? Like poison?”
“Apparently some of his symptoms lined up with poisoning, but when they tested him, nothing came up. They ended up filling out his death certificate as natural causes, but I've never really believed that. Healthy men don't just die like that,” he says.
“Do you think Cole could have murdered your father?”