Chapter Fifteen

~ Jenna ~

“I’m glad you’re here, Jenna,” Mom says as I walk into the shop. “Do you recognize this guy?”

She picks up a piece of paper off the wrap stand and hands it to me. I take the grainy black-and-white photo that appears to be from a surveillance camera.

The photo is of such bad quality that, at first, I don’t recognize the guy in the picture, but then it clicks. “Oh, my gosh. I think that’s deejay Marco Yolo—er—Marco Gianetti. You know, Riley’s friend, the one he hired for the reception. What’s this picture from?”

“It’s a still from the surveillance footage of the penthouse elevator at the Birkshire Condominiums. That’s the guy who entered the apartment.”

My mouth falls open. “He’s the one who took Riley’s Rolex?”

Now it makes sense. That’s why I recognized his voice but couldn’t place it out of context.

“Why would he do that?” Mom asks.

“I have no idea. He wasn’t charging the Buxstons for his deejay services after the wedding was canceled. Why would he cross a police line and steal a watch?”

Suddenly, something far more ominous dawns on me. “Where did you get this?”

“Jackson gave it to me. He asked me to ask around and help identify the guy.”

My heart thuds. “So, if Jackson was looking at surveillance footage, did he see us?”

Mom smirks. “He saw three people whose faces were hidden. See, it wasn’t such a crazy idea to wear a disguise. You can thank me now.”

“Mom, I’m being serious. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out it was us. Are we in trouble?”

“Relax. This morning, he told me that he had released the crime scene yesterday before the intruders went to the condo.”

“Does he know it was us?”

She shrugs. “In general terms, he let me know it was illegal to cross a police line. He said whoever entered the condo is very lucky he doesn’t plan to pursue charges. He claims he could since he hadn’t formally announced the crime scene was cleared.” She makes a face as she straightens a stack of bridal brochures on the counter. “In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the best idea to do that. We probably should’ve waited until after he’d let the Buxstons know it was okay.”

“Hello!” I say. “At the time, we had no idea how long it was going to be tied up. Since we can’t figure out how the killer got into the apartment, Jackson probably doesn’t know either and he could’ve arrested me for Riley’s murder. Did you tell him our theory that I’m not tall enough to have hit him with the fatal blow?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“Jackson already knew that, and he told me the coroner’s preliminary findings show that the perp was probably left-handed, too.”

“What? Wait a minute. He knows I’m not tall enough to have hit Riley and he knows the killer is a lefty. I’m righthanded.” I hold up my right hand as if presenting evidence. “Why hasn’t he told me I’m cleared?”

“He told me you’re not a suspect anymore.”

“Whoa. Back up. I’ve been exonerated?”

Mom smiles because she’s messing with me. I cover my face with my hands because I feel like I’m going to cry. It takes me a minute to get ahold of my emotions, but I finally do and when I look at Mom, her eyes are shining with tears, too.

“I will never take my freedom for granted. It was awful to be accused of something I didn’t do, knowing everyone was looking at me and thinking I was capable of taking someone’s life.”

I take in a deep breath and let it out noisily just as Alicia walks in the front doors.

“Everything okay?”

“It couldn’t be better,” Mom says.

“I’m not a murderer,” I say.

Alicia smiles as if she’s not quite sure she understands the joke. “I never thought you were. Did Chief Bradley officially clear you?”

“He did,” I say, “and freedom has never tasted so sweet.”

“However, Riley’s murderer is still out there,” Mom says.

That brings the celebration back down to earth with a thud. The three of us look at each other.

“That means we need to help Jackson catch the killer,” I say. “I don’t know about you, but now more than ever it feels like we need to stay on this case until justice is served.”

My mother nods. “Jackson is good at what he does, but he hasn’t been here long enough to know Hemlock and the residents.”

Alicia’s eyes grow wide. “I think I’d be inclined to leave the criminals to the police,” she says as she edges toward the office. “I deal in brides, not bad guys. Speaking of, I have an appointment in fifteen minutes. Do you think we can ix-nay talk of illers-kay?”

The door opens again. This time Ian McCoy walks in. My cheeks warm at the sight of him.

Underneath his open black coat, he’s dressed for work in dark dress pants and a white shirt with a red tie. His green eyes light up when he sees me. How did someone who was such a little dork grow up to be so handsome with broad, lean-on-me shoulders and dimples that wink when he smiles?

Did he have dimples then? Ten-year-old me didn’t notice.

“Jenna, hey,” he says. “You’re just the person I was looking for.”

I’ve been right here—the whole time—since you were twelve and I was ten. The ridiculous thought pops into my head. I have to bite my bottom lip to keep from smiling like an idiot.

“Hi, Ian, what’s up?” I consider cracking a joke and asking him if he’s looking for a wedding planner, but—no. Never mind. It would probably sound dumb. Why do I suddenly feel like an awkward ten-year-old around him?

“I have great news and I wanted to deliver it in person. Chief Bradley called me this morning and said he’s cleared you. You’re not a suspect in the Buxston case anymore.”

“I know.”

“You do?” Ian’s face falls. “How do you know?”

“I had coffee with the chief this morning,” Mom says. “I told her.”

For a moment, the tractor beam of his smile made me forget my mother was standing there.

“Okay. Good. Congratulations. I wish every case was as easy as yours.”

“Ian, send me a bill for your time.”

He chuckles and runs a hand over his dark hair. “I don’t work on Sundays. So, it wouldn’t be fair to bill you.”

“That makes it even worse,” I say. “You had to go into the police station on your day off.”

“It was my pleasure.”

Was it? I should say something besides, “Thank you, Ian.” Because now that I’m not his client I should at least offer to buy him a drink to celebrate. But he’s backing toward the door and I can’t seem to find my words.

“I’ll see you around,” he says.

“Ian, are you going to the Christmas festival this weekend?” Mom asks.

I make a mental note to hug her for keeping the ball in play.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“You should come,” I say. “I’ll buy you a mulled wine. It’s the least I can do.”

He nods. “I like mulled wine.”

“Good. I do, too.”

“I’ll see you there,” he says.

“See you there.”