Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery 3)

“Right. Well, now they’re arriving and calling me.”

“Oh, no.”

Her lips twisted in a grimace. “Oh, yes. Why do you think I’ve turned this off?” She pointed to her cell phone on the side table. “I don’t even want to think about how many messages I have or who they’re from.”

I thought of the partners at her firm. This news couldn’t be buying her any good will with them.

The creak of the front screen door and a brisk knock turned our heads.

“Who could that be?” I muttered.

I crept up to the door and checked the peephole. A well-groomed woman loomed into view, lips puckered, nose wrinkled. Behind her, a man stood, holding something on his shoulder. Apparently the rotten egg stench wasn’t putting them off.

“Good grief,” I whispered.

“What?”

I put my finger to my lips and padded away from the door. “I’m not sure, but I think there’s a reporter out there,” I said. “With a cameraman.”

Jamila threw her hands up and fell back against the sofa. “Wonderful. What next?”

“Have you told anyone where we’re staying?” I asked.

“I told Rudy, of course.” Her husband was a man sensible enough not to talk to the press.

“I haven’t told anyone.” Then I thought of the rotten eggs.

Jamila must have read my mind. “I think we know who told them.”

The knocking resumed. Would I have to act as Jamila’s press agent now?

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I peered through the peephole until the reporter and her sidekick left. Moving to the front window, I watched the two heading for an unmarked van that gave no clue who they worked for. Awesome. The man stowed his camera in the back, as the woman—well-coifed reddish-brown hair, late twenties, medium build—slid into the passenger seat, clutching her notepad and pen.

I snorted. “I don’t believe this. They have to know you won’t be willing to discuss the case.” Shaking my head, I added, “Journalists. They’re goddamned vultures. Idiots and vultures.”

Jamila remained silent, gaze fixed on the television. She’d muted the sound, but kept staring at the images. She was either inwardly steaming or taking this remarkably well.

“I guess those guys go after anything that even smells like a scoop around here,” I said. “It must get old covering the farm beat and whatever rinky-dink occurrence passes for news in these parts.” I knew how feeble and stupid I sounded, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that Jamila was holding back.

“I’m not sure what else to do, except get a look at Bower Farms from the inside and hope it reveals something compromising. Maybe follow up with those guys who hung around Billy Ray.” I prattled on like a moron, dancing around the point in a manner wholly unlike me.

“Jamila,” I finally said. “Why did Mulrooney ask if you could think of a motive to kill Billy Ray?”

She heaved a sigh. “It’s … nothing, really.”

I steeled myself. Jamila knows I have to ask. “Are you positive?”

“Yes.”

She cast a sad glance my way. One that seemed to belie her words.

*****

Since Jamila seemed too numb to act, I took the initiative and scared up a watering hose from beneath the landscaped shrubbery around the building. A bit of digging through the junk drawer produced an adapter that let me attach the hose to the kitchen faucet. About a half hour later, I’d finished blasting rotten egg off the front porch and replaced the hose where I’d found it.

I washed up and was drying my hands when my cell phone rang. I