The way his face lit up warmed her inside. He grabbed the ticket and studied it carefully.
Her conversation with Emily played in her head.
What is Emily involved in?
***
As he drove Emily home from the hospital, Zander mentally regrouped.
He was down a partner. Ava would be in the hospital for at least a night or two as she recovered. He put his money on one night; as soon as she was coherent, he knew she’d argue to be released. Mason would have to talk some sense into her.
Zander had left a very relieved fiancé at the hospital.
“Her upper arm and shoulder are more metal than bone now,” Mason told him. “She already had four screws in that humerus from getting shot about a year ago.”
Zander remembered.
Sheriff Greer had interviewed Emily about the shooter and received the same story Zander had heard. The sheriff had confided to him that they couldn’t find any sign that someone had been along the road. Understandable with the pouring rain, but no one had seen another vehicle either. He was still looking and asking questions.
Zander’s boss had agreed to send him another agent, but she wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow evening at the earliest. For now, Zander was on his own and needed to decide what to do next.
Alice Penn. He wanted to interview Alice about when she had seen Cynthia Green’s body dumped in the woods. He was pessimistic about the results since Alice was flighty and the death had happened twenty years ago. But the Fitch murders were his priority. Cynthia Green—assuming her identity was confirmed—would have to wait.
Billy Osburne. Still missing. Sheriff Greer had taken the lead on finding the man, but nothing concrete yet.
Tim Jordon’s email with Sean Fitch’s purchases and calendar from his laptop had landed in Zander’s in-box an hour ago. He had studied them as he waited for Emily to be discharged.
“Do you know a Simon Rhoads?” he asked Emily, breaking the silence in the vehicle.
She turned toward him, and he continued to focus on the road, looking beyond the rapid movements of the windshield wipers. The interior of the vehicle was warm and comfortable, a contrast to the growing storm outside.
“I do. He has a thing for Aunt Dory.”
Zander’s lips quirked. “A thing?”
“He’s asked her to marry him at least a dozen times, but she always says no. They’re good friends, but she doesn’t want to live with him. She likes the mansion and her ‘girls.’”
“Are you considered one of her girls?”
“Yep. She loves having her sisters and the two of us around. In her mind it’s a nonstop slumber party. Why do you ask?”
How much can I tell her?
“I got Sean’s calendar. He had an appointment with Simon two days before his death.”
“That makes sense. Simon is the unofficial town historian. As a history teacher, I’m not surprised Sean knew Simon.”
“Unofficial?”
“The city council pays for an office for his records and allots him a small budget. They can’t afford to pay a salary, but Simon doesn’t mind. He’d do it without the location and the budget. He’s a bit obsessed.”
“Aren’t all historians obsessed? I found out Sean Fitch was writing a book. Maybe Simon helped him.”
“I recall Lindsay mentioned Sean was writing a book.”
“Where is Simon’s office?”
“Downtown. It’s in a tiny house owned by the city.” She checked the time. “We’ll need to hurry. He won’t see anyone after three o’clock, and there are no exceptions.”
“I’ll take you home first and then stop by.”
“Do you have an appointment?” she asked.
“I need one?” The question surprised him.
“You better believe it. Simon is a stickler for routine. He may be obsessed with his records, but he’s also obsessed with procedure. You can’t do anything to alter his schedule—especially since you’re a stranger. It flusters him.”
“Then why did you say we need to hurry to get there before his day is done?”
She grinned. “He’ll make an exception for me. Anything or anybody that has to do with Aunt Dory gets special treatment.”
Zander eyed the bandages that peeked through her long, dark hair. “How do you feel?”
She considered. “In light of what’s happened, not too bad.”
“Probably the pain pills.”
“I admit I’m enjoying some pleasant side effects.” Her eyes danced.
“Most people fall asleep.”
“Not me. They’ve always given me some get-up-and-go. Which typically doesn’t help whatever injury I’ve had to take them for.” She felt her bandage. “I’m fine to go with you to Simon’s, if I take it easy and don’t stand for long.”
“If I think you’re in pain or discomfort, we’re leaving.”
She snorted. “Fine. But let me do the talking. You’ll know when it’s safe to speak up.”
Safe?
27
As they went up the cracked walkway to the front door of the tiny home, Emily reminded Zander to let her lead the conversation. She’d known Simon Rhoads all her life, and he’d always been kind to her and her sisters, but he was definitely odd and sometimes struggled with outsiders in his personal space. Under everything he was good-hearted—and very excited about local history.
She knocked.
Her head started to throb, and she tightened the tie on her scrubs again to keep the baggy pants from falling to her feet. She was determined to see this through for Zander and the Fitches.
The door opened a few inches, stopped by a chain, and a bespectacled gaze peered out. “Emily!” He closed the door, unhooked the chain, and yanked it open. His grin faltered as he spotted Zander behind her.
“Hi, Simon,” Emily quickly said to pull his stare away from Zander. “I need your help with something. It just came up today, so I’m sorry I didn’t set up an appointment.” She schooled her features into a contrite look.
Simon was shorter than Emily—most people were shorter than Emily—and consistently wore slacks that bagged at his ankles. His striped button-down collared shirt had yellowed and grown thin, and several holes had been worn through the collar. His hair was nearly solid gray, the same as his beard, and both needed the attention of a barber.
She also felt he could use the help of an organized woman.
Dory wouldn’t be much help. Her great-aunt wasn’t one for detail . . . but maybe that would make her the perfect match for Simon.
Simon looked from her to Zander and back. “I’m always available for you, Emily.” He shot a look at Zander that emphasized the words weren’t for him.
“I appreciate it.” She put a hand on Zander’s arm. “This is Zander Wells. He’s with the FBI and is investigating the murders of Sean and Lindsay.”
Bushy brows narrowed as he scrutinized Zander. “You were at the meeting the other night,” he said.
“I was.”
Simon’s attention went back to Emily. “How is your aunt?” His gaze was full of hope.
She didn’t need to ask which one. “Very good, thank you. You should come over for dinner soon.”
His entire demeanor perked up. “Fabulous! I’ll take you up on that. Come in, come in.” He stepped back, waving them in. Emily silently exhaled; he’d accepted Zander’s presence.
The city had bought the tiny house several decades ago after the owner died, intending to fix it up and sell it at a profit. But the city budget had virtually no money for repairs, and no buyer was ever interested. For years the poorly planned purchase had caused local tongues to wag. The grandson of the woman who’d died had been on the city council and had convinced the council to buy her house. One day he abruptly stepped down from his position and moved to Florida.