“Sure did. Although I’ll take it in a to-go cup. It’s really too cold out for ice cream, but I had to run an errand for my dad and thought I’d pop in.”
“I’m glad you did,” Genevieve said, scooping up the mocha chocolate chip and packing it into a to-go carton. “You’re the only customer I’ve had for over an hour.”
Dillon took the cup and slipped a folded five-dollar bill into the snow-cone tip jar. “Can’t imagine why,” he quipped as more thunder cracked in the gray sky. “Between the weather and the police dragging the lake for a dead body, it’s no wonder people don’t feel like strolling down Main Street.”
Brandon, who had followed them to the counter and settled on a bar stool by the register, quickly tried to change the subject. “How’s the Queen Mary coming along?” he said.
“It’s a tough build, man. I’ve had to start over four times on the hull, trying to get the curvature right. It’ll be worth it though.”
Genevieve had tensed at the mention of the lake and was grateful to Brandon for knowing how much she didn’t want to talk about it. She’d busied herself scrubbing at a nonexistent splotch on the counter but Dillon, looking as if he’d suddenly remembered something, turned to her and said curiously, “So what was the protected address all about? Did it have something to do with the death of that teacher?”
Genevieve set her washcloth down in surprise. “What do you mean?”
Dillon blinked. “You didn’t notice? That’s what I was trying to ask you about the other night on the phone.” The front door chimed as a pair of high school students walked in, giggling and holding hands. Dillon’s change in demeanor was instantaneous. “Gotta go,” he muttered.
“But—” Genevieve came around the counter, but Dillon was already headed out the door, pulling his hoodie over his head as the rain sheeted down and blew in a blast of cold air.
“Thanks for the ice cream,” he called back, and as Genevieve and Brandon watched, he jogged to his car, skidding on the slick sidewalk.
Genevieve glanced at the couple; one of the girls was pointing out flavors and the other one was squealing about calories—they were firmly wrapped up in their own little world. She sat next to Brandon and pulled out her phone, clicking on her email and checking the trash folder, which she hadn’t thought to empty yet. The file was still there. She opened it.
“Oh,” she breathed. She hadn’t seen it before because she’d paged straight through to the L listings in the hopes of finding Miss Love. But someone had made the mistake of alphabetizing by her first name...
There, between Santos Garcia’s address on Grove Street and Deja Jackson’s listing on Lincoln Lane, was the name Haylie Love.
Only next to the teacher’s name there was no address, only the word PROTECTED.
“Why would her address be protected?” Brandon mused. “Unless she already felt she was in danger?”
“And if she were that afraid of Ms. Pierce,” Genevieve added, “why would the school have allowed the substitute to work there?”
“What if,” Brandon said slowly, “there was someone else Miss Love was afraid of?”
They looked at each other, troubled. Then the door to Sweet Dreams burst open and Carly Jamison rushed inside, her cheeks red with the cold and with obvious excitement.
“Did you guys hear the latest?” she asked breathlessly. “Principal Mattison has been taken in for questioning! They’re saying Ms. Pierce didn’t commit suicide after all.” She paused dramatically. “She was murdered!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT WAS THE CAT!
Within twenty-four hours, Ms. Pierce had gone from the most hated teacher in the history of Pinewood High to its most revered. Students clustered in the hallways before the morning bell, declaring their reverence and respect for the substitute teacher Genevieve knew they’d all detested. Suddenly Ms. Pierce was no longer a crabby old sub but a helpless old woman who’d loved children and simply believed in instructing them with strict, old-school discipline, like a lovable granny.
Genevieve gritted her teeth and tried to ignore the hypocrisy, focusing instead on her renewed hopes that, if the suicide was staged, perhaps Miss Love was still alive. The dragging of the lake had been called off due to the inclement weather—they’d had lightning storms all afternoon and into the evening—and the young teacher’s body had not yet been found.
Genevieve’s hopes were quickly dashed, however, when she herself was called in for questioning by Detective Christie the day after Principal Mattison had been questioned and released.
“You can refuse, you know,” Brandon said.
“Why would I do that?” Genevieve had retorted. “I’m not afraid of her. And besides, maybe I can learn something about the investigation.”
The police station in Pinewood was a red brick building with a terraced flower garden bookended by a pair of maple trees. The charm ended once you stepped inside the sterile front reception area, but Genevieve didn’t have long to wait before she was ushered through a narrow hallway and into the detective’s office.
Detective Christie wore the same tight ponytail and sharp blue gaze as the last time Genevieve had faced her. Was that only a week ago? It seemed like a year. Her workspace looked the way Genevieve would have imagined—uncluttered, with dark wood furniture, leather chairs, and shades drawn.
“Miss Winterland,” the detective said, nodding curtly. “Thank you for agreeing to be here on short notice. I’d like to ask you a few more questions about the other night.” She gestured for Genevieve to sit. “Would you like a coffee?”
Genevieve said, “Is it true that Ms. Pierce was murdered?”
The detective looked at her evenly. “We have reason to believe the suicide was staged, yes.”
Genevieve was caught off guard—she hadn’t expected a straight answer. Sitting back in her chair, she let the confirmation sink in. Ms. Pierce had not chosen her death. She was a victim, and someone had not only murdered her in cold blood but tried to pin the blame on Ms. Pierce herself. Doesn’t seem fair, Genevieve thought.
Ms. Pierce had by no stretch of the imagination been a kind person or an effective teacher, but she had not deserved to die. Genevieve remembered her own flash of sympathy as the substitute spoke of having no children, the naked remorse on Ms. Pierce’s normally bitter features that had stripped her down to someone real and vulnerable.
“Miss Winterland?”
Genevieve focused again on the detective, and when she spoke there was a hard edge to her voice. “Someone killed her and strung her body up.”
“Yes, and that someone is on the loose. We need your cooperation to find him.”
“Him?”
“It took a very strong person to stage Eloise Pierce’s hanging.”
Genevieve paled. “I was there, in her home...”
“You were lucky.”
