Page 48 of Dead & Breakfast
“No,” Arthur replied. “Not sure why people keep asking me that. We own the Iris Inn.”
“If someone said he tagged it, that’s a lie,” the girl said. “He was with us Thursday night, until he had to go home for curfew. He always goes straight home, his dad’s a—” She cut off what was undoubtedly about to be a swearword and continued, “A real stickler for the rules.”
“And so many bad dentist jokes. It’s next level,” Flannel Teen said.
“What time was this?” Arthur asked.
“A little before nine, like always.” Basketball Teen frowned. “If someone tagged your place it was probably his other friends.”
“Wait, what do you meanhis other friends?”
The girl scoffed, expression souring. “Brody’s a good guy, okay? Just because he sometimes hangs out with a different crowd—”
“Okay, but they suck.” The teen in flannel crossed their arms and gave their friend a scathing look before addressing Arthur and Sal. “Brody’s been hanging with some seniors from school. They’re all into graffiti art or something—which would be fine, by the way, if they weren’t also jerks.”
“I’m familiar.” Arthur knew the boys in question, having met them at the coffee shop the day prior.
“Anyway, if someone got the inn, it was probably them. They’re pretty trash about paranormal stuff.”
“Ah, no. Nothing like that.” Arthur couldn’t bring himself to accuse their friend of murder aloud. It wouldn’t be kind, and Arthur wanted them, just like all the residents of Trident Falls, to like him. “Did Brody have his father’s truck when you were together?”
“Yeah, he always drives,” Basketball Teen said.
Hiding his dismay, Arthur gave Pancake one more good scratch and stood. “Thank you very much for your time. Enjoy your afternoon.”
The teens surveyed them with varying degrees of trepidation as Arthur and Sal retreated to the tandem bike, Arthur in a daze, Salvatore in a rage.
“Cheugy, me?” Salvatore wailed. “Who could’ve thought I would be so out of touch!”
Arthur couldn’t be bothered to talk him down. His mind was elsewhere, churning rapidly through the information they’d gathered.
Brody had definitely had the truck, and he’d left his friends before the time of the murder but had told them he was going home. And Dr.Young had said he’d been out well past curfew.
Arthur might have just solved the case, but he didn’t feel very triumphant, because, if he was right, it meant Brody Young—a certified youth—was the killer.
Chapter 13
The worst thingabout solving a murder was telling the sheriff. Even though he was right and McMartin was wrong, Arthur couldn’t shake the unpleasantness that came with interacting with law enforcement. It was the one time he would have preferred to simply send a text, never mind he couldn’t figure out how to use Salvatore’s smartphone. But, alas, he didn’t trust McMartin to take the information seriously unless they delivered it in person.
The station was as busy as usual. A few deputies sat at desks doing paperwork, and a little old white lady complained to another that her neighbor’s dog was too loud. McMartin stood in the back with his hands on his belt, surveying them all as if he had nothing better to do—like solve a crime, perhaps.
“What now?” McMartin grunted when they walked in, a scowl taking root on his face.
“We have essential information about the case,” Arthur said.
McMartin crossed his arms. “You might not have gotten caught on camera dumping blood in the park, but I still don’t trust you.”
“You don’t have to trust us.” Arthur knew that was a lost cause.“You can trust the facts, and the evidence. We have a viable suspect, and I think he’s worth looking into.”
“Other than your husband?” McMartin glanced at Salvatore, and his lip curled into a soundless snarl.
Salvatore had been unusually respectful, letting Arthur take center stage, but this seemed to break whatever restraint he had.
“Really, Sheriff, there’s no need for pretense.” He gave an exaggerated wink. “I know I’m in your head.”
“There’s no longer any reason to suspect Salvatore, given the facts,” Arthur continued. As much as he would love to delay pointing the finger of blame at a teenager, he wouldn’t let Salvatore derail them now. Not when they were so close to being done with this awful business. “Brody Young’s the one you want.”
McMartin paused, genuine concern crossing his expression before he returned to an indifferent sneer. “Brody? Really?”
