Читать книгу In Self Defence - Debra Webb - Страница 11

Audrey tossed her keys onto the table that sat next to the door. Lifting one foot and then the other, she removed her ruined shoes. She paused for a moment, her toes curling against the cool wood floor. The house was completely dark save for the lamp on the table where her keys lay. It felt so strange coming home to an empty house. Even now, after six months of living in her childhood home as an adult, the hollowness at times startled her.

Her mother had always been so cheerful and vibrant. No matter the season, the house had been filled with the scent and beauty of the flowers from her gardens. Even in the winter she had kept plants blooming in the Victorian-style greenhouse she had built when Audrey was a child. Every single year until the one before last, Mary Jo Anderson had won awards for her lovely gardens. Her gardening had always been her escape, her own special brand of chicken soup for the soul.

Reading had been Audrey’s. She imagined it was all those suspense novels that had made her so bold as a reporter. She often told friends she had lived a thousand lives through the books she read. Growing up in a small town, books were her escape.

She picked up her high heels and headed for the staircase. The entire house remained stuck in the Victorian era with few concessions to modern times: a more comfortable sofa in the den and updated appliances in the kitchen. The paint and wallpaper, though well maintained, boasted the same pinks and burgundies from more than a hundred and twenty years ago when the house was built. Her great-great-grandmother who’d actually commissioned the house had insisted on keeping things exactly the way she’d wanted them. Mary Jo, though not exactly a pink-and-burgundy lady, had respectfully left the decorating scheme as the late great Annette Anderson had decreed. Audrey’s grandmother and great-grandmother had done the same.

At the top of the stairs, Audrey glanced toward the south end of the second-floor hall. The suite at that end had belonged to her parents. How many nights had she crept quietly through the darkness from her bedroom at the other end to those towering double doors? Her father had always scooped her up and nestled her between him and her mother. A perk of being an only child.

Even after all these years, her heart squeezed at the memory of her father. She imagined that she would always miss him, no matter that he’d been gone for twenty-four years. Weary now, she made her way to her room, the same one she’d slept in growing up, and padded straight to the walk-in closet to put her damaged shoes away. She should probably just throw them out, but the little shoe repair shop on the corner of the square depended on folks like her to stay in business. No one understood the need for supporting local businesses better than Audrey. Though she was far from destitute, the expenses related to her mother’s care and turning the newspaper around were quickly draining her savings.

She sighed as she hung up her jacket. Though her mother had changed hardly a thing around the house, Audrey had altered a couple of things right away. The first being to expand her closet into a decent-sized one. And still she’d had to downsize her wardrobe. Living in the limelight of investigative journalism for all those years had required an extensive wardrobe. Plus, she was reasonably sure she had a slight obsession with clothes, shoes in particular. With her work, it hadn’t actually been a problem.

But that life was over.

Audrey closed the door of the closet as well as the one to the past.

No looking back. This was her life now, and it wasn’t such a bad one.

She tossed her clutch purse onto a chair and reached for the zipper of her skirt. After leaving the Sauder farm she’d followed Burt to the hospital but had learned nothing. As she left the hospital and headed home, she dictated the story to Brian, her longtime friend and the editor at the Winchester Gazette, via her cell. Once she’d sent him the photos she’d snapped, he had laid out the story for tomorrow’s front page. It would be tight, but since they were one of the few remaining small-town newspapers that still did their own printing, the job would get done. Newspapers landing on doorsteps and in stands tomorrow morning would showcase what little was known about the shooting. The article was already online.

Sarah Sauder was two or three years younger than Audrey. She remembered seeing her at the family-run bakery as a child and then as the woman behind the cash register since moving back to Winchester. Audrey popped in at least once every week. The Yoder Bakery, though located outside Winchester proper, was considered a local landmark. The peanut butter balls were to die for and her mother loved them. Audrey liked having a special treat for her mother when she visited. She also adored their blueberry scones. She bought those for herself, which was all the more reason not to drop by too often.

But the man who’d taken his last breath on Sarah Sauder’s kitchen floor hadn’t come to Buncombe Road for peanut butter balls or blueberry scones. And he sure hadn’t broken into the century-old farmhouse looking for valuables to snatch. Branch Holloway’s presence ruled out any possibility of the man’s death being something less than serious trouble.

Wouldn’t be drugs or human trafficking. Certainly not gunrunning. At least not involving the Sauders. The man had obviously connected the wrong identity with the house. But that still left the possibility that someone in Franklin County was up to no good and the trouble rippled all the way to the Windy City.

The skirt she’d worn tonight slid down her hips, then she stepped out of it. Frankly, she couldn’t think of any criminal activities that rose to that level in which any of the locals, much less the Yoders—in this case the Sauders by marriage—would be involved. Of all people, Audrey was well aware of the reality that what one saw was rarely exactly what lay beneath the skin of others. But these were Mennonites.

She frowned as her fingers hesitated on the buttons of her blouse. She’d forgotten to ask Brian how he’d heard about the shooting. She assumed it was from the police scanner. She would ask him tomorrow.

The buzz of her cell echoed in the room, the sound muffled deep inside the clutch she’d tossed aside. She didn’t dare ignore it. There could be breaking news in the shooting...or an issue at the paper.

Since taking over the Winchester Gazette, she’d realized how running the family business could consume one’s life. As a crime reporter she had given herself completely to the story, but when the story was over there was typically some time before another came her way. Running the Gazette was entirely different. It was always there, an endless cycle of need for more content. Another story, another something to fill the pages—advertising. The newspaper had been in the Anderson family for nearly two centuries. How could she be the one to walk away? Her father would have wanted her to take over when his brother, Audrey’s uncle Phillip, decided to retire.

She shivered. It wasn’t like she’d had a choice. That decision had been taken from her years ago.

She dragged her cell from the clutch. When she had learned the developer who wanted to buy the Gazette planned to tear it down, she’d had to take control. The shiver turned into a chill that scurried deep into her bones.

The historic building could not be torn down. Ever.

At least not as long as Audrey was still breathing.

The caller ID read Pine Haven. A new kind of dread spread through Audrey’s body. Pine Haven was her mother’s residential care facility.

“Audrey Anderson.” She held her breath. It had been two days since she’d visited her mom. What kind of daughter allowed forty-eight hours to pass without dropping by or at least calling?

“Ms. Anderson, this is Roberta Thompson at Pine Haven.”

The worry in the other woman’s voice sent another spear of uncertainty knifing through Audrey.

“Your mother is very agitated tonight. We need to sedate her but she insists on seeing you first. I know it’s late but—”

“I’ll be right there.”

* * *

THE DRIVE TO Pine Haven on the other side of town took scarcely fifteen minutes and still it felt like forever. Audrey’s heart pounded twice for every second that passed before she was parked and at the front entrance. The night guard waved her through. Evidently her mother had the facility’s night shift all out of sorts.

Nurse Roberta Thompson waited for Audrey at the entrance to the Memory Care Unit. Roberta smiled sadly. “I’m so sorry I had to bother you at this hour, but she won’t stay in her bed and she’s demanding to see you. When a patient is this agitated we nearly always have to use sedation, but your mother’s file says you prefer to be called first.”

“Absolutely.” Audrey held up her hands. “Please. You know I always want you to call. No matter the hour.”

Roberta nodded. “Talk to her. You’re what she needs right now. Then we’ll get her settled for the night.”

Mary Jo Anderson was pacing her room when Audrey walked through the door. Her short white hair was mussed, her long flannel gown rumpled as if she’d already tossed and turned all night.

“Mom.”

Mary Jo’s gaze settled on Audrey’s. For a moment she stared, the haze of confusion and distance dulling her blue eyes. She was far away from this place, perhaps not in miles but in time. Audrey knew the look too well. When she came back home to buy the paper and to stay until she sorted out her future, Audrey had been startled by the episodes of total memory loss her mother suffered. Startled and heartbroken. How could she have deteriorated so without Audrey knowing it?

“Audrey.” The haze cleared and her mother smiled.

Audrey closed the door and walked over to hug her. “What’s going on? Nurse Thompson told me you’re upset.”

When Audrey drew back, her mother’s smile was gone. “They’ll find him and then you know what will happen.”

The too-familiar apprehension stole back into Audrey’s gut. “Let’s sit down, Mom, okay? I’m really tired. I’m sure you must be, too.”

She ushered her mom to the bed and they sat on the edge.

Mary Jo took in Audrey’s jeans and sweater before settling her gaze on her face once more. “You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen in plain old blue jeans, Audrey Rose.”

Audrey couldn’t help smiling. “You always say that, Mom.”

“It’s true.” Mary Jo sighed, turned away to stare at the wall on the other side of the room as if someone else had spoken to her. “I’m sorry I caused you all this trouble, sweetheart. You should be back in Washington. I’ve messed up everything.”

Audrey put her arms around her mother’s shoulders. “You didn’t mess up a thing. Remember? I moved back to Winchester six months ago to buy the paper.” The surprise in her mother’s eyes warned that she’d forgotten. “I took over the Gazette for Uncle Phil. He wanted to retire.”

She looked away, a classic indication she did not recall. The lines on her face appeared deeper than ever. Worry. Even with her memories fading, she still worried. Was that the curse of being a woman? A mother?

Or was it the secret they had been keeping for so long?

Audrey pushed away the thought. That was taken care of for now. No need for either of them to worry.

“We can’t hide our secret forever,” her mother whispered.

Mary Jo’s words brought Audrey’s attention back to her. She glanced at the door—couldn’t help herself. No one needed to hear this. No doubt anyone who did overhear would think it was just the disease talking. Still, Audrey would feel better if her mother didn’t mention that part of their past. “Mom, you don’t need to worry about the secret. No one will ever know. I promise.”

Her gaze latched onto Audrey’s once more, the urgency there painful to look at. “You can’t stop it. Fate or whatever they call it...the Lord. The Bible says so.” She heaved a big breath. “They will find us out and it’s my fault. All my fault.”

She muttered those last three words over and over.

Audrey would need to check with Roberta to see if Mary Jo had any visitors today. Usually something set off this kind of episode. Maybe she’d somehow heard the news about the shooting on Buncombe Road. Audrey didn’t see how that was possible. Could have been some other shooting or death. Sometimes startling events sent her mother off on a tangent. On those occasions, Audrey did all she could to soothe her frayed nerves and to guide her toward more comforting memories.

“Mom, do you remember my junior play? You had to make my costume. I was the nurse and you were so upset that I wasn’t cast as Juliet.”

“The costume was hideous.” She shook her head. “You should have been Juliet.”

Audrey laughed. “Well, Mrs. Bishop was the director and I guess she wanted her daughter to play the lead role.”

Mary Jo chuckled. “I think the only thing worse than that costume was your dress for the senior prom.”

“Oh.” Audrey shuddered at the thought. The dress was one memory she had worked hard to exile. “It was absolutely awful.”

Her mother rambled on about the dress order and the numerous fittings and how the garment still would not fit properly. Audrey had been reduced to tears at least twice until she’d decided enough was enough and had worn her favorite jeans and tee to the damned prom. Half the senior class as well as the school staff had been mortified; the other half couldn’t have cared less. Audrey would wager that she was the only girl who had ever dared wear jeans to a prom in Franklin County, maybe in the whole state of Tennessee.

Colt had grinned and told her she was the most beautiful girl in the gymnasium—and maybe the world. The old ache that accompanied memories of her senior year squeezed deep inside Audrey’s chest. She had been madly in love with Colt Tanner. They had been planning their future together since eighth grade when he sneaked a kiss on the school bus. That kiss had startled them both. The perfect balance of sweetness and innocence.

She had known the boy and then the man inside out. At least, she’d thought she had. But you never really know a person. Not really. When he’d married someone else—a pregnant-with-his-child someone else—Audrey had realized she could never trust anyone with her heart ever again. If Colt would break it, there was no hope with anyone else.

True to her decision, she never had. In December she would turn thirty-seven. Forty was right down the road. In all probability she would never know how it felt to hold her own child in her arms or to share her life with a man she loved the way her mother had loved her father. Of course her career had been immensely fulfilling—until things had gone so very wrong.

The newspaper would just have to be her baby, she supposed. Certainly the staff was like family. And she still had her mother. Well, most of the time, anyway.

Rather than wallowing in self-pity, Audrey listened as her mother talked on and on about the distant past—the good days, she called them. The ones before that awful year of darkness that came after her father’s heart attack...and the secret that she and her mother would take to their graves.

Some things had to stay buried. There was no other option—not then and not now.

“Then you went off to become the celebrated investigative journalist,” Mary Jo said after a long pause, her eyes gleaming with pride. “Your father would have been so proud. He never wanted you stuck here running that damned newspaper. He wanted you to explore the world, to conquer all the glass ceilings.”

Except there really was no choice now. Six months ago her mother had called with the news that Phillip was retiring and a developer wanted to buy the paper. Said developer planned to demolish the old building and start fresh—his words. That could not happen. Not in this lifetime. The building had to stay exactly where it was for the foreseeable future.

“To tell you the truth, Mom, I was tired of all the travel and the limelight.” Audrey waved off the career that had once been her singular focus. “Let someone else have a turn at being the best.” She winked at her mother. “I couldn’t hog all the glamour forever.”

Mary Jo smiled and patted Audrey on the leg. “You were always such a thoughtful girl. I’ll never forget the time you came home and bagged up all your clothes to take to that little girl whose house had burned down. I finally convinced you that we could take her shopping for new clothes. You really made your father and I proud. I know he has watched your career from heaven.”

There was another secret Audrey planned to keep. Her mother would never know—nor would anyone else for that matter—that her career had gone to hell in a handbasket. She’d made a mistake. Ten years at the top of her game and she’d made a totally dumb, foolish mistake. She’d wanted the story so badly, she’d trusted a source without going through all the usual steps to verify that source. She had allowed her friendship with that source to guide her, and she’d rushed to beat everyone else. She’d screwed up.

Big-time.

Bottom line, she had no one to blame but herself. While she had been licking her wounds, her mother had called with news about Phil’s retirement. Audrey had done what she had to do. She’d zoomed home and bought out her uncle’s portion of the family business. With her savings basically depleted after that, she’d decided to stay on and try turning the paper around. No one knew how to lay out a titillating story better than Audrey. She could have the paper thriving again within a year. No problem. An entire human could be made in less time. Of course she could do it. It was the perfect distraction. If she was busy saving the family legacy, she didn’t have to think about the rubble that was once her career.

Or the secret that no one else could ever know.

Her mother laid her head on Audrey’s shoulder, exhaustion overtaking her now that the manic episode had passed.

But it was coming home to do what must be done that served up another cold hard reality to Audrey. Her mother was not well. The forgetfulness and absentmindedness were not merely age or the overabundance of civic commitments to which she had obligated herself for the past thirty-five years.

Mary Jo Anderson had dementia. If Audrey had come home more often, she would have realized the lost keys and missed appointments her mother had laughed about on the phone were more than forgetfulness. Far more. But she had been too busy with her illustrious career. She had called her mother every week, sometimes twice, but she hadn’t gotten home nearly as often as she should have.

But she was here now. And as her father always said, “when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade.”

Tonight’s shooting was a perfect example. Nothing promised a bump in circulation like a potential homicide.