1 Depth of Field Page 4

  Sheriff Norwood blocked my path after ten minutes, curling strong fingers around the edge of the cart and leaning toward me. “If you don’t finish this right now, I will interview you here.”

  I swallowed. “Fine. I’m done.”

  We headed up to the cashier, and I ran my items through the checkout. The woman’s fingers flew over the keys of the register without her looking. “Well, this is interesting.” Her suggestive grin said exactly what she found so interesting, and a glance at the sheriff’s face said he knew too. Lightning flashed in his gaze, and the woman’s smile died. She hurried my items along and had them rung up and bagged within moments. Wonderful service having the sheriff as a tagalong. I might need to bring him with me again sometime. The ridiculousness of this thought kept me from obsessing over the coming interview.

  Sheriff Norwood assisted me with loading the bags into the trunk of my car, and then he followed me home to my apartment. He even carried all of them to my door and waited while I unlocked it.

  “In here,” I said as I led the way to the kitchen, not very far since my place was tiny. I eyed him as he set the bags down on the counter. My kitchen had never seemed so box-sized with such a big man in it, and I speculated on his willingness to do so much for me. When his sharp gaze took in every detail from the gym flyer pinned beneath a refrigerator magnet to the barren dining room, visible from the kitchen, I started thinking he’d done so only to get into my apartment without a warrant. Did he think I would have the murder weapon just lying on the counter?

  “Are you done searching, or would you like to check the bedroom too?” I offered.

  This time his face was blank, all irritation gone. He confused me. Tugging out the obligatory notebook, he said, “Where were you between two and four a.m. yesterday morning?”

  “Is that when he died?” My heart raced, but I tried to sound as calm as he. He glanced up at the breathless quality of my voice.

  “So you were alone?”

  I got it. He was asking the questions. “Yes, I was here alone and asleep.” The word alone bounced off the walls and echoed. I’m sure it was only in my head that this happened. The sheriff scratched a note.

  “Did you give anyone else a key to your office?”

  This took me by surprise. “No. The landlord has one, I suppose, and whatever company he has to come in to empty trash cans.” I had opted to pay extra each month to have this service. I hated taking trash out to the apartment Dumpster and was thrilled to learn of the optional addendum to my lease. Now, not so much. “Are you saying someone had a key?”

  His gaze met mine. “There is no sign of break-in.”

  I swallowed. “You’re saying…someone…” I trembled. The jar of creamy peanut butter in my hand wobbled. He stepped forward and took it from my slack fingers to set on the counter. His hand brushed mine. That was all. No soft, comforting words, no embrace. I’m not saying I expected it. I just noticed its absence. I shut my eyes and pulled myself together. After I had taken a few steadying breaths, I returned to putting the food away. Keeping busy helped. To think at any time, someone could have walked into my studio, even at night when I worked late to develop photos undisturbed. Well, it distressed me.

  “When my men have finished processing the studio, I’ll release it to you, and you can have the locks changed.”

  I wondered if there was skepticism in his tone, as if he wondered if there was any reason to change the locks. If it were me who had killed Alvin, then it was pointless. I knew at that moment, no matter how frightened I became and even if the sheriff believed my trembling of moments ago were genuine, he saw murder similar to how Inna had said she saw it. Anyone could do it, even if there were regrets later. Fear and shock, like me running out into the street, none of that mattered. Then there was the issue of my past.

  “Makayla,” he said.

  I stilled. Now he called me by my given name. A ploy I decided, suspicious. Briefly, I wondered what his reaction would be if I said, “Yes, Spencer?” I didn’t have the guts to try it, darn it all.

  With care, I placed a two-pound bag of flour on the counter, opened it, and poured the contents into a container. After wiping up the few dots of white powder that had spilled, I folded the dishcloth and hung it on a rack above the sink. The entire time, he stayed silent, waiting for me. Patient man, or he expected any second I would succumb to the pressure and explode with a confession.

  At last I had the presence of mind to face him, and I turned from pointless tasks to meet his gaze. The notebook was nowhere in sight. For some reason, that fact helped relieve my mind a little. I was not so naïve as to think he felt these were routine questions he was about to ask me.

  There were tricks of my trade to calm my subjects, especially when working with newborns. For example, I know that I have to set the stage. Often newborns are photographed without clothing, so I provide blankets that have been warmed in the dryer. At my new studio, I didn’t have a dryer, so I had found a heater, which I had ordered online since I hadn’t been able to find one in Briney Creek in the middle of summer. I turned the A/C off so that the space would warm up naturally, and I added noise machines to the works. New babies can actually sleep fine in noise because it’s said the womb is quite loud. These techniques and others I use when working with babies, but young children and adults can also get jittery to the point that they suffer with jerky movements that can cause blur in the photos. With the addition of a prop or the removal of one, I can produce greater calm. That’s why I recognized the sheriff’s tactic in hiding his notebook. I was getting jerky seeing it.

  “Tell me about New York five years ago,” he said.

  “You looked into my background.”

  “It’s my job.”

  I licked my lips. An impulse to ring my hands came over me, but I ran them instead over my pants legs, probably just as bad. “My sister died.”

  “To be more specific, she was murdered.”

  “If you know everything, why are you bothering asking me?” My words were caustic, but talking about my sister did that to me. I didn’t want to revisit the past and relive the pain of that time. I had thought I was leaving it all behind, that the darkness that could be a part of that huge city couldn’t possibly be also found in this small town. I suppose some might say I had brought a little of it with me, but I refused to claim ownership of such a thing. Not if I wanted to remain the person I was today.

  The sheriff folded arms over his chest. He didn’t appear particularly cruel or hard, but neither did he come across as being on my side. We were two strangers in a new town, outsiders to the rest, but not united or connected in any way.

  “The police questioned you as a possible accomplice with your brother-in-law to murder your sister.”

  I couldn’t believe how the words tore at my soul even after all this time, a soul I had thought I’d rebuilt with deliberate acts of love and kindness to others. “I’m sure it’s also in my file that they dropped me as a suspect.”

  He didn’t respond.

  People who assume that just because you are never convicted of a crime, you have no record, are in a word, wrong. You have no “record” per se, but the fact that you were ever suspect remains for the next time the police come looking into your life. So, sometime in the future, if ever I get into trouble, there will be a file in the police database that says I was suspected of murdering my sister. Five years later, a murdered man was found in my studio. Not condemning in any way, but if I were the police, I would keep a sharp eye on that person.

  “Did you know Alvin Aston was married?”

  The insinuation rankled. “Are you asking me if I was seeing a married man?”

  “Makayla—”

  “If you’re accusing me of a crime, I will need to get a lawyer.”

  He sighed. “I’m just asking questions at this point.”

  My temper snapped. “That’s what the police always say. I’m just asking questions. Then they rip your life apart and make all your f
riends— I didn’t kill my sister, sheriff, and I had nothing to do with Alvin Aston.”

  He studied my face, his unreadable. “I have a witness that says you were seen with Aston.”

  “That’s a lie! Who said it?”

  “Are you sure?”

  I put my hands on my hips. “Of course I’m sure. I know who I’m seeing and who I’m not. Wait.” I thought about it, eyes narrowing. “It was right after I moved here, maybe a few weeks after. I ran into him at the grocery store. He introduced himself, and I gave him my card.”

  “Go on,” the sheriff encouraged me.

  “Nothing much to add. He gave me his card, too, and said if I ever needed his services I should give him a call.”

  Suspicion glinted in the sheriff’s eyes. “Services?”

  “Get your mind out of the gutter. Okay, I suppose when he said it, he sounded a little warmer than necessary. I didn’t encourage him, but whether or not I have a moral code when it comes to married men is not the issue here.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  I pressed my lips together. “He said if I ever want to buy a house in Briney Creek, he’s the man to see. Maybe you forgot that he is—was—a loan officer?”

  Perhaps I thought I would shame the police officer with my words. He didn’t rise to the bait or look apologetic for his conjecture. “Why didn’t you tell me this before rather than claim you didn’t know him?”

  “I didn’t claim I didn’t know him. I said I didn’t really know him, which is true. That one meeting was all there was and hardly important to your case.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  “Fine.” My feelings were hurt, and I felt abused after the interview. I knew he was just doing his job, but it didn’t change my reaction. Emotions raw, fears resurfacing, I answered the rest of his questions without lying but not offering anything additional either. Sheriff Spencer Norwood came across as competent and strong, and I hoped he would do all he could to find the real killer and do it soon.

  Chapter Four

  The only problem I could see with living in an apartment is not having my own washer and dryer. I know there are many complexes in the world that do have them, but they also cost more. In my mind, I was saving money, and keeping more dollars for other bills was key to my survival. So each week, I gathered all of my clothes into a couple baskets—with wheels mind you—and made the trek down Main Street to the Laundromat. Okay, I’m being dramatic here. In actuality, I loaded up my car, drove the mile down Main, and well, you get the rest.

  Because I am a thinker, which means I like to spend time inside my own head pondering life, I choose to do laundry late at night. So much of my business involves people that I want to get away from everyone every now and then. The twenty-four hour Laundromat is usually quiet with no more than one or two people there. Tonight, however, when I walked in lugging what I unaffectionately call my granny basket behind me, I had a surprise waiting for me. One Sheriff Spencer Norwood stood at a washing machine frowning at it like he was tempted to shoot it.

  I considered backing out and choosing another day for my chore but plowed ahead. “Sheriff, I’m surprised to see you here.”

  He turned solemn eyes on me. “Makayla.”

  I was struck anew with how much I enjoyed him saying my name. “Um, are you having trouble?”

  “No.”

  He continued to stand there looking at the machine.

  “It’s not going to fill itself.”

  He grumbled and sighed. When he pushed fingers through his hair, I couldn’t help noticing from its disheveled state he had probably been doing that for a while now. At last, he admitted, “I’m not sure if I should add detergent first or after.”

  I drew up beside him and mentally laid claim to the two machines next to his. “I do it before and start it up so it will blend. I know some people wait until after.”

  We were having very a stimulating conversation.

  “So, is your apartment nearby?” I asked and then wished I’d kept my mouth shut.

  He poured the detergent, a little heavy-handed for my taste, but I remained silent about it. “I have a house, but I haven’t exactly furnished it yet.”

  “Oh.” I considered this. “I’m guessing you’re not used to doing your own laundry. Your wife out of town or not here yet?”

  The silver eyes flicked to me, amusement brightening them. Wow, subtle, Makayla. I felt like I had been smoother in the past with chatting up men, but perhaps I never was. Maybe I’d lost the ability after my experiences in the past. Either way, there had been no one in the last five years, no one of consequence anyway.

  Trying to get out from under that knowing look, I busied myself with my own tasks of sorting clothes, dumping piles into washers. I walked over to the change machine and ran a twenty, retrieved my quarters, and then returned to the machines. Only after I had placed the money into the slots and thrust the mechanism to activate the machine did I recall I had not followed my normal routine. Just great.

  “I’m not married,” the sheriff said out of the blue.

  I blinked up at him, and ignored the thrill I felt at the news.

  “I’ve been divorced about six months, estranged for much longer,” he explained. “I didn’t have to do my own laundry.”

  I wondered what that meant. Did he have a girlfriend to do it for him? When he started to mix whites with darks, I believed his story. “Hold on, there. Don’t mix them unless you want dull or dyed shirts. I’m thinking the good people of Briney Creek won’t have much confidence in a sheriff who can’t dress himself properly.”

  He chuckled, and I liked his laugh, a deep and husky sound. “They should worry about whether I can keep them safe.”

  “Sheriff—”

  “Call me Spencer.”

  His instruction silenced me for a moment. All I could do was stand there staring at him, and then I shook myself to try it out. “Spencer.”

  He appeared pleased, but I had no intention of speaking his name that way in front of others. I chided myself on the heels of such a thought, as if he and I had plans to be alone other than by accident.

  To keep myself from looking like a woman starved for a man’s attention, I busied myself teaching him how to separate his clothes. “It’s a good thing you keep it simple with wardrobe. You don’t want to wash your suits in these machines. Those can go to the dry cleaner’s.”

  He frowned. “I know that much.”

  I grinned. “Uh-huh. You do the rest. I’m not washing your clothes for you, Sheriff. Spencer. You can handle it.”

  He revealed a smile that could light up the room, surprising me after such grumpiness from the moment I met him. I again put the previous attitude to the stress of the new job and silently wished him success. In companionable quiet, we worked together, and when I was done loading my machines, I strode to the back of the shop to a row of interlocked chairs and sat down in one. Soon Spencer joined me to drop into one of his own. I couldn’t help noticing how long his legs were, how muscular as he stretched them out and crossed his ankles. He was such a handsome man, how had his ex-wife allowed him to become estranged and then divorce him? Of course, I knew it wasn’t all about looks, but when you’re alone for a long time, you tend to think nothing could make you give a man up short of abuse and unfaithfulness. Had he been guilty of either of these, or was it her? Again, what the heck was she thinking?

  “I feel you assessing me,” he commented, and I started.

  “I wasn’t,” I lied.

  Disbelief radiated in his expression. I refused to give in, and he shook his head. “You’re stubborn.”

  I wanted to tell him he didn’t know me very well, but he was too right.

  “I was a cop in Alexandria.”

  “Virginia?”

  He nodded. “It’s the same old story. I worked a lot. She complained. I…”

  When he hesitated, I speculated.

  “Her family had money.” He spoke the words simply, but the ti
ghtening of his lips and hardening in the eyes said he resented it or maybe how he was treated because of it. “I was a regular guy from an average family. She was the pampered princess, and I was supposed to fall in line with that. Not work so much that I neglected her.”

  He surged to his feet just as I was about to comment. To have opened up to me so quickly, a stranger—worse, a suspect in a murder he was investigating—must have annoyed him. I didn’t like recalling that part. I didn’t want to let go of the conversation either. “You shouldn’t feel bad because you wanted to keep something of yourself in that situation.”

  He peered over his shoulder at me and then faced the front of the shop, looking out onto the street. I tried again. “Many women face that kind of situation every day, but it’s odd when a man has to deal with it.”

  “Have you ever been married?”

  He’d turned the tables on me. I didn’t want to talk about myself. “No.”

  When he looked at me, I bristled, and he raised an eyebrow. “You think I’m judging you.”

  “I—”

  “Admit it.”

  “I don’t think anything of the sort.” I couldn’t be honest in that instant because in truth, I judged myself all the time. Then, like he had done, I found myself speaking about what I had kept in my heart because he was there and willing to listen. “You can’t imagine what it’s like to be condemned for something you didn’t do. To not be allowed to grieve because the police are too busy assuming you…”

  “Then you must hate all cops.”

  “I would if I blamed them.”

  “Then you blame yourself for your weakness?” He did not pull punches, but I liked that about him. My sister’s husband, Colin, had been all kind words, gentleness, and a murderer. Up until the time I found out the truth about him, I had never seen him angry or heard him raise his voice. He had seemed like the perfect human being, which should have clued me in that something wasn’t right. Pain gripped my heart as if it had all happened days ago, and I bowed my head, and squeezed my eyes shut.