“But what if the answer leads to a killer? Don’t you think you should tell Sam, just in case?”
“I don’t know who killed Reggie Stuckey, but I don’t think my decision to part ways with my family, or the things that were behind that decision, had anything do with his murder. That was a long time ago, Becca.”
“Do you have any idea who might have killed him?”
Brenton looked at me with true surprise. “I don’t have even a small clue that could help. I haven’t spent time around tree farmers, or Reggie Stuckey, for years.”
“But the Ridgeways had, right?”
“They were all in the tree business. Maybe they had work, business things together. I just don’t know what any of them have been doing.”
I nodded slowly and hoped he’d add more. He didn’t.
“Let me grab the coffee,” he said as he stood and went back to the kitchen.
It seemed like knowing that Brenton’s last name used to be Ridgeway should answer a multitude of questions, but now I wondered if that knowledge would only lead to more questions.
After he handed me the coffee and sat in the chair again, I decided to try something else.
“Brenton, have you been making and leaving me Christmas ornaments?”
“What? No.”
“Shoot. I wish it were you.”
“What’s going on?”
I sighed. I counted on the fact that I wasn’t wrong about my instincts regarding Brenton. I counted on the fact that for years I’d known Brenton, the homemade dog-biscuit guy, and we’d been friends enough that we could trust each other with at least some of our more minor secrets. I could tell him about the ornaments and my idea that they were clues, puzzle pieces that might lead to a killer. If I shared a little, maybe he’d share more about his breakup with his family.
When I was finished describing each and every ornament, he said something that turned out to be the biggest surprise of our whole conversation, something that unfortunately only led to even more questions.
He sat forward in the chair, his elbows on his knees and his eyes absently locked on the baseball cap. “Becca, I might know who is making them. I’ll find out first and get back to you.”
“Really? Why can’t you just tell me now?” I said.
“Because I think you’re 100 percent correct. I think the ornaments are clues, and I think they might lead to a killer, but I just want a little more information before I make such an accusation.”
I gulped a mouthful of coffee. I’d hoped for more information, but this was even bigger than his family breakup. “Brenton, please tell me.”
“I’m sorry, Becca. I can’t. Not yet.”
“Will you at least tell Sam?”
“When I know for sure, he will be the first I tell.” Brenton smiled, but it was a gentle, somewhat sad smile. “But I’ll be sure and tell you second.”
“Thanks,” I said. I couldn’t help myself.
Twenty-one
Sam was expecting my phone call, but he wasn’t expecting the news that Brenton told me that he may know who made the ornaments. I didn’t see how I could have kept that from the police. Sam said he would go directly back out to Brenton’s house to get the rest of the story.
I was a little thrilled that I’d been able to wrangle more out of Brenton than he had. Sam was just plain appreciative, and also worried.
He was also adamant that I was done investigating for the day. He didn’t want me talking to anyone else until he understood what Brenton thought the ornaments meant. He told me to go to Bailey’s or to help my parents get ready for the night’s parade festivities, or to help Allison with something.
I thought he was cute when he was so adamant, but I didn’t tell him that.
I was also out of questions. I’d asked everyone everything I thought was pertinent. I’d wanted to ask Brenton how it had been to be married to Stephanie Frugit, but that was just plain curiosity. Maybe someday I’d find out more. But I’d learned lots about past personal lives of people I knew, people I’d just met, and people I’d only heard of. If nothing else, my perspective had changed. Reputations weren’t always to be believed.
But sometimes they were—this thought, this simple idea, took root in the back of my mind and didn’t want to let go. People sometimes did, in fact, live up to their reputations. But though the thought wouldn’t leave me alone, I couldn’t attach it to anything important regarding the murder.
I shook my head, mumbled something even I didn’t understand, and then steered the truck downtown.
Both Allison and I had thought our parents would leave Monson shortly after the holidays. We thought they’d pack up the motor home and head out on another wide-open road adventure, but they hadn’t said or done one thing to confirm those suspicions. They’d moved into a small house they owned but had previously rented out on the edge of downtown, and instead of it seeming like a temporary situation, they’d been doing upkeep on it that made it seem more permanent.