Sam lets out a sigh of appreciation as he steps into the house, carrying a bag of my favorite coffee beans from the roaster in town. I reach up into the cabinet for my bean grinder, and he wraps his arms around my waist from behind, nuzzling his face into the curve of my neck.
“Smells amazing,” he says.
“Me or the cinnamon rolls?” I ask.
“Both,” he says and kisses my shoulder.
I pour some of the coffee beans into the grinder and blitz them, then pour them into the coffee maker.
“The rolls will be ready in just a couple of minutes,” I tell him. “The icing is already ready.”
“Did you make extra?” he asks.
“Would I ever do anything but?”
He takes a spoon out of the drawer and perches at the table as I pour coffee. Pulling the bowl of cream cheese frosting close to him, he dips the spoon in and samples it. I shake my head and laugh at him. The man has no control.
“You never told me why the management company wanted you to come up there yesterday," he starts.
I put the cream back in the refrigerator and slide a cup of the fragrant coffee toward him.
"Oh. So, it turns out when Dad decided to turn over the house to the management company to be rented out, there was still some stuff in the attic and the storage shed. They called him and told him it was there, but instead of coming to get it, he asked them to put it in the storage unit and just pay for it until he came back. Obviously, he never did. The other night, somebody tried to break into it. They didn't get all the way in, but they banged the living hell out of the lock." I take a sip of my coffee. "Didn't you know about it already? I figured you would have heard from the manager of the storage unit."
He shook his head. "I didn't hear anything about it. He didn't make a report."
"That's interesting. I wonder why he didn’t."
"Didn't want the hassle or the bad look of an officer roaming around his property. Makes it look like it's not secure."
"Which it's not. The security cameras on the unit buildings are fakes," I tell him.
"Another reason he doesn't want to tell us. He knows he'll get poked fun at for cheapening out with toy security cameras," Sam nods. "What was in the unit?"
"A chair and a stack of boxes. I was kind of hoping for a treasure chest or scary mannequin or something," I say.
"Were you actually hoping for a scary mannequin?" he raises an eyebrow.
"No. But those TV shows are very misleading."
I go to the oven to take out the rolls.
"Those TV shows are very scripted with people who buy stuff just to stock the supposedly abandoned units," he points out.
I sigh as I put the pan down on a pair of trivets on the table.
"What has happened to reality TV? Gone are the days of girls slinging their shirts off for no apparent reason and fractured marriages turning to parking lot brawls and storming of various places of business," I tease.
"Also all scripted," he chuckles, lifting the bowl to pour the icing over the hot rolls.
"What is the world coming to? I've been so misled." I tear off a piece of one of the cinnamon rolls. The molten brown sugar stings on my fingers, but it's worth it. "I didn't get a chance to go through the boxes. I was already running late, so I only looked through the Christmas decorations in the first one. I'm planning on going back to look through them."
"Do you want to come up to the station with me? I'll take you up there during my lunch break."
I give him a questioning look. "You want me to come up to the station and sit there while you work just so you can bring me up to the storage unit during lunch?" I ask.
"I might be a bit curious, too. I also want to have a word with the manager about his responsibility to inform the department of incidents. Having you there will also give me a good reason to not work through lunch."
He leans across the table to kiss me.
"Nothing says romance like sitting in the waiting room of a police station reading old magazines. But for you, I'll find out about the breakup of the century again. What's on your schedule today?" I ask.
"More paperwork about Everly Zara. Still trying to hunt down Michael Blair as well."
"You know, I've been thinking about what you told me about the suicide," I say, getting up and going to the utensil canister on the counter for a pair of metal tongs to dish out the rolls. "It's not really sitting right with me."
"What do you mean?" he asks, getting plates from the cabinet and sitting back down.
"From what I remember about her, they were very happy before the little boy died. After that, she fought hard against the allegations and was very outspoken about wanting to clear her name and get her life back together. She never took her engagement ring off and talked about her future with Michael. She never once hinted she thought her relationship was really over or that she would be legally blamed for Peter’s death."
"You're right. She was completely adamant she didn't do anything to Peter and that his death was an accident. The only thing she would ever say was she should have watched him more closely in those few moments," Sam nods.
"Exactly. So, what's the motivation behind such a dramatic suicide? You pointed out it wasn't a moment of passion. She didn't get so distraught she all of a sudden decided to throw herself off the balcony or take an overdose. This looked like something she thought out and prepared for."
"So?" he asks, filling his mouth with a huge bite of cinnamon roll.
"Why would she swing so drastically? Nothing happened that would make her suddenly go from determined to clear her name and move forward with her life to making a dramatic statement with a ritualistic suicide."
"Are you saying you think she didn't kill herself?"
"I'm just wondering what else led to the conclusion she did," I tell him.
"The scene suggested she stood on the footboard of the bed, attached the rope to the ceiling fan, and jumped. She had no defensive wounds on her hands or signs of assault of any kind. The house was locked up from the inside. All doors and windows. Maggie, the housekeeper who found her, used her key to get inside. The security cameras that cover the entire perimeter of the house are motion activated. Any movement makes them turn on and record for several minutes. None were tripped at any point before Maggie showed up. I know it doesn't make a lot of sense, but the evidence points to suicide."
I nod. "Alright."
"Maybe all that confidence was just for show. She thought if she acted like everything was fine, it would bring Michael back to her and stop the investigation into Peter's death. But when it didn't look like that was going to happen, she couldn't take it anymore. Now we just help everyone around her pick up the pieces and move on."
I have to admit it’s a solid theory. But still, something doesn’t sit right with me.
Chapter Fifteen
We get to the police station, and I take my place in the waiting room. I could probably go back to his office with him, but it wouldn't be good form. Considering the professional capacity that brought me back to Sherwood to work with Sam, I don't want to muddy the waters. Besides, he's never been good at concentrating when I'm nearby. The few times I attempted to help him study for a test and upcoming projects are testament to that. Something about me just being in the same room with him seems to keep his brain from being able to follow a straight path. He'll do what he needs to do eventually, but it can be a winding road to get there. This doesn't come into play when he's deep in the mire of an intense investigation. But he already said this morning is set aside for paperwork, and that never thrills him.