Читать книгу Small-Town Secrets - Pamela Tracy - Страница 10
ОглавлениеIF ANYONE HAD told Yolanda that Adam would become Mr. Fix-it, she’d have laughed. He was a dreamer, an artist and a wanderer. His family and friends had always worried about him, sometimes even more than they had about his brother. But Yolanda had to admit, Adam always seemed to land on his feet, albeit wobbly.
After dropping out of high school, he’d managed to become a pseudo artist-in-residence, surviving by doing caricatures during the weekend and then masterminding most of the artwork—mostly murals—at Bridget’s Animal Adventure. Back then, a whole five years ago, he’d painted during the day and during the night, acted as a security guard in exchange for room and board.
Yolanda’s mom had called him a loser. But Trina Sanchez had thought only a man wearing a suit and tie and bringing home a four-digit-a-week paycheck was to be admired.
Yolanda had never met that man. Her memories of her own father were shadowy. She remembered that he was tall and that his chin and cheeks had always felt rough to her touch. He’d smelled of ink, as he’d worked in Phoenix at some type of print shop. He’d died when Yolanda was four. Her mother hadn’t talked about him much, simply saying he should have had more drive.
Yolanda had long suspected that no one possessed enough drive to please her mother. Yolanda certainly hadn’t.
When it came to Adam Snapp, Yolanda couldn’t get a handle on whether he had drive or not. He was passionate about his art, and never seemed to worry about anything else, like rent or food. In his teens and early twenties, he’d been content to live in an old house, more a caretaker’s cabin, on BAA’s property. Existing day to day, almost like a hippie. Yolanda had almost envied him this worry-free existence.
Unfortunately, there’d been only so many walls to paint in Scorpion Ridge, which was just a tiny spot on the Arizona map. Fortunately, his talent had gotten noticed, big-time, and he’d left Scorpion Ridge with a suitcase of clothes and four suitcases of art supplies. At least that’s what Yolanda’s grandmother had heard from Mr. Teasdale, who’d heard it from... Well, the small-town grapevine had many roots.
What Yolanda remembered most was that when Adam left Scorpion Ridge, her mom had shaken her head and given him six months before he came back, head hanging, to move in with his parents.
Yolanda had refrained from mentioning that she still lived with her parent. And, although Yolanda nodded in agreement with her mother’s prediction, secretly she believed Adam would do something great with his talent. She respected that he had the motivation to follow his muse to other places. She’d been so busy making sure she got straight A’s that she’d not had time to develop a muse. Wasn’t sure she knew how.
And, though she’d never admit it, especially to him, she thought Adam was quite good.
To everyone’s surprise, two years after Adam left, an article in the Scorpion Ridge Gazette reported that he’d won a national competition and was becoming fairly well-known, with patrons willing to pay in the five digits for his art.
Even in black-and-white, the winning mural featured in the newspaper was riveting. It was as if Adam had only been practicing when he’d painted all the murals at BAA. His real talent lay elsewhere.
And now he worked for her, removing hinges.
“Yolanda.”
Startled, Yolanda blinked, realizing that she’d followed Adam to the front porch and had just stopped, afraid to go back in the house but unsure what to do next.
“I’m fine.”
He shook his head. “No, you’re not.”
Yolanda started to protest, but stopped. Adam, of all people, could read people’s moods. He’d been doing it his whole life, watching out for his disabled brother by diffusing emotional situations before they got out of hand.
“You’re right,” she admitted, “for some reason, I’m overreacting.”
“Not like you,” he admitted. “How can I help?”
It felt strange to accept help from him. She and Adam were usually adversaries—she promoting the side of logic; he on the side of risk.
She glanced back at the house, almost asking him to walk around with her again. Help her figure out where the woman had gone, how she’d disappeared. He’d do it, she knew. He would never walk away from someone who needed him.
“Nothing right now,” she finally said. “I’ll figure it out.”
He nodded, not looking convinced, and he took a couple of steps down the front stairs.
She didn’t want him to go.
“Adam, why’d you come home?”
He raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by the question. “Haven’t you heard? I came back to help my parents.”
Yolanda knew that his dad had hurt his back while teaching a Tae Kwon Do class, and that the doctor had found something suspicious in the X-ray. But Adam’s parents were young. Probably in their fifties.
Her mother had been young, too, even though Yolanda had been a change-of-life baby, a complete surprise, born when her mother was forty-six. She’d passed away at seventy-one, too young. Yolanda still wanted her mother. And Gramma Rosi was eighty-six. Maybe eighty-seven. No one was quite sure.
“I heard that but didn’t realize your father was so sick that you had to give up your career.”
“Sometimes family comes first.”
No, Yolanda thought. Family always comes first.
But she didn’t buy that his father’s illness was the only thing that had brought Adam home. Something had to have happened, something that had stymied his paintbrush, filled his eyes with sadness and erased the smile from his face.
Yolanda didn’t know what, but right now she was glad he was here because his over-six-foot frame made her feel protected. She rather liked the sensation. The old woman must have really spooked her, enough so that she walked to the edge of the steps, closer to him. Funny, she’d never realized just how tall he was.
“I’ve got a class to teach,” he reminded her, but he didn’t leave. The street in front of her wasn’t busy. It was a small-town kind of Monday, paced for the beginning of the week. Tuesday and Wednesday would see more people out and about. By Thursday the out-of-towners would arrive not only to enjoy the wildlife habitat but also to stay at the many ranches that catered to weekend cowboys.
It was Yolanda’s town. The Acuras had arrived here just after the Moores and Ventimiglias. She liked the close-knit Scorpion Ridge community, quaint downtown and the feeling of a rich history that came with it. Adam had always been meant for bigger and better things, however.
He stood for a moment, watching her. “If you’re really afraid, you can always come to the studio with me. I doubt your ghost will be signed up for a beginner’s class.”
“She wasn’t a ghost. Ghosts don’t smoke.” Yolanda stepped around him and settled in one of the two rocking chairs on the front porch and studied her surroundings. Across the street, a young woman pushed a stroller. The woman’s husband worked at a nearby mine. Maybe someday she’d come in for a romance novel for her and a picture book for the baby. Another neighbor raked his yard. A car—Yolanda recognized it as belonging to the minister—traveled down the street and turned right.
Nothing was out of place or suspicious.
“She’s gone,” Yolanda muttered.
“Who’s gone?”
Yolanda started at the new voice. “Gramma Rosi, where’d you come from?”
“I was sitting in the backyard on the swing, enjoying the garden. I thought it was time to come in.”
Rosi Acura still owned the house, still had a key. She could visit whenever she wanted...and apparently leave doors unlocked so people could wander in off the street.
Right now she called a lot of shots in Yolanda’s life. Her biggest stipulation: “Even though I’m giving you the house, I still want things in my name. I’ll pay the gas and water and such. All the taxes.”
When Yolanda protested, Gramma Rosi merely scoffed and added her two cents to Yolanda’s mom’s wish that her daughter live her dream. “In the world today there are people who love what they do and people who don’t know how to love. You are a lot like your mother, but you don’t have to live like she did. All my life I worried about that girl.”
“Hello, Mrs. Acura,” Adam said. He took two steps down the front stairs, apparently feeling it was okay to leave now that Yolanda wasn’t alone.
“Adam, I love what you’ve done to the floorboards. They look like they did when my family first moved in.”
“When was that, Mrs. Acura?”
“Nineteen hundred and forty-six... maybe earlier, or later. I had just turned sixteen. Until now, it’s always been a private residence.” Gramma Rosi gazed up at the house, all smiles, something in her eyes that Yolanda didn’t understand.
“It’s still somewhat a private residence,” Yolanda reminded her. “I’m living upstairs, remember.”
Maybe Scorpion Ridge was too small a town for a used bookstore... That had been her aunt Freda’s comment. Rosi’s second daughter. Yolanda had always thought it magical that her grandmother had had two families. First, she’d had Trina. Then, when Trina was grown and gone, she’d had two more children.
“They kept me young,” Gramma Rosi claimed. “Also, it made it so much easier to lie about my age.” Freda had moved to California the day after her college graduation. They saw her maybe once every three years.
You’ll have to take care of your own insurance, both life and medical... That had been her uncle Juan’s contribution. He was Gramma’s youngest child.
He lived life to the fullest, always had, yet seemed to land on his feet and make good decisions. Yolanda, on the other hand, needed prodding to take risks and sometimes took so long deciding which course to take that she missed out on opportunities.
But Rosi had made the decision to open the bookstore easy by giving Yolanda her house. “You, more than Freda or Juan, deserve the house. Take it now while I can enjoy watching what you do with it.”
True, Freda was in California. She didn’t want it. Juan lived in Phoenix in a gated community, complete with wife and children and all their activities, although he did love to come visit.
Grandma had another stipulation. “And I’ll work for you. You don’t even have to pay me.”
Just what Yolanda needed. Gramma Rosi would give away books if the customer didn’t have enough money, or worse, she would lend him the money. And if a book that had questionable content—maybe it was a bit too sensual—wound up on her counter, she’d accidentally misplace it. Even if a buyer was right in front of her.
But her immediate concern was the mysterious older woman. “Gramma, did anyone leave out the back door while you were sitting in the backyard swing?”
“No, why?”
“I found an elderly woman in the history section. She said she was searching for a book. I turned away for a moment and when I looked back, she was gone.”
“It was someone you didn’t know?”
“She said she was related to the Ventimiglia family.”
Gramma Rosi’s smile disappeared. “You must be mistaken,” she said. “That family died out. They’ll do no more harm.”
“Harm?” Yolanda said.
“What did she look like? What did she want?”
Quickly, Yolanda described the woman and mentioned the book she’d asked after.
“Phhh,” said Rosi, still frowning. “Probably some reporter thinking there was a story. The Ventimiglias used to own just about everything in these parts. If she appears again, you find me.”
“But—”
“Just do it,” Gramma Rosi said.
With that, she went inside. Yolanda watched her climb the wide stairs, slowly and stiffly.
“I’ve never seen her like that,” Yolanda remarked.
“I’m curious, too, now. Let me call GG,” Adam offered, setting his tool chest on the porch. “If there’s a Ventimiglia relative still living and hiding somewhere, she’d know.”
For a moment Yolanda thought about saying no. Her grandmother had been so upset. But why?
“I guess it wouldn’t hurt.”
“They’re about the same age, your grandmother and mine.”
Which meant that Adam’s great-grandmother Loretta, who wouldn’t let him add great to her title and so was called GG, was nearing ninety.
“She was a Realtor for all those years,” Adam said. “What she doesn’t know about Scorpion Ridge isn’t worth knowing.” He fetched his cell phone from one of his many pockets and soon was busy trying to get the lowdown on the Ventimiglias.
Yolanda sat down on the top step, wrapping her arms around her knees and listening.
“GG says she thinks the family has died out, too,” he reported. “And she’s never heard of a Chester. GG wants to know if you’re sure the name was Chester and not Richard.”
“I’m sure.”
“Guess neither of you noticed the plaque on the courthouse in the middle of town,” Adam teased before returning to the call. He paid rapt attention to Loretta, nodding exaggeratedly before sharing, “The last Ventimiglia, not named Chester, left decades ago, more than six.” He listened some more, finally saying to Yolanda, “GG says they were not a nice family, and everyone was glad to see them go.”
“Well, your great-grandma and my gramma agree. Hmmm, why’d they leave?” Yolanda wondered.
But Adam was still intently listening to Loretta. “GG says she’s not heard the name Ventimiglia in a long time. She’s sure you’re mistaken about the name.”
“No, I’m not. And the name sure got a rise out of my gramma.”
Adam shrugged and handed Yolanda the phone.
“The Ventimiglias are long gone,” Loretta Snapp said, her voice guarded. “Died out, and I don’t recall there being a Chester. But my grandson says his name is on the courthouse wall. Adam’s always had a good memory. It’s been years since I’ve even thought about the family.”
“Did you know any of the Ventimiglias?” Yolanda asked.
“The person Adam described sounds like Ivy, but she died a long time ago. Why, she’d be almost ninety if she were alive.”
“Sorry,” Yolanda said, thinking that Loretta hadn’t really answered the question. “And she didn’t have any children?”
“Oh, she lived the life she deserved, went off to college, but never married or had any children.”
“Are there any distant cousins or such?”
“Not that I’m aware of. The family left town when I was still a teenager. It caused a bit of a scandal.”
“Any idea what the scandal was?”
“No.”
“So my elderly visitor was probably somebody doing a bit of research on town history,” Yolanda decided.
“If you want to know about old families, ask me about mine. I was born a Munro. I married a Snapp, who’ve lived in Scorpion Ridge for over a hundred years. I can also tell you about the Moores and the Sheldons and—”
“That’s all right,” Yolanda said.
Adam held out his hand, and after thanking Loretta, Yolanda returned his phone. He said goodbye and hurried down the steps to his ancient minivan. He was the only guy she knew who willingly drove one. It had always been full of paints, brushes and old towels.
It perfectly represented his vagabond life and reminded Yolanda that she’d only be able to rely on him temporarily.
Heading back toward the house, Yolanda couldn’t help but feel that Adam’s grandmother, who apparently was well versed in the whole history of Scorpion Ridge and its oldest families, knew more than she was telling.
* * *
SNAPP’S TAE KWON DO studio was in a strip mall nestled between a nail salon and a doughnut shop. It would celebrate fifteen years of service in a few months. In some ways the studio was a blessing. It gave Adam’s autistic brother, Andy, a productive way to earn a living. But it had also been a huge change for the Snapps. When Adam was eleven, his father had walked away from a six-figure white-collar job and purchased the studio. The Snapps had gone from buying whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted, to spending on a budget.
And Adam had been angry. He’d liked having a television in his room, being able to get any video game he wanted and the best art supplies.
It had been the beginning of his strained relationship with his father. Adam had just wanted a voice, to be heard, but his dad had never seemed to want to listen.
This afternoon the parking area in front of their studio was fairly empty, as the Scorpion Ridge schools didn’t get out for another hour, and the two morning Tae Kwon Do classes, one for tots and the other for seniors, had ended before Adam rolled out of bed.
“Hey,” his mother greeted him as he stepped into the foyer. She was at the front desk taking advantage of the lull by counting out fliers to be delivered to the local schools and anywhere kids or any potential client might be found.
“Andy feeling better?” Adam asked.
“No, he’s been in his room all day. Doesn’t want to come out.”
“Still don’t know what triggered the mood swing?”
“Not a clue.”
Andy was a creature of habit, a connoisseur of routine. If his day got out of whack, he closed down.
“Want some help?” Adam offered.
“No, go on back and see your father. He tried calling you earlier.” Marianne smiled at him, as she had his entire life. She’d been his champion, but she hadn’t really understood him, either.
Adam figured his dad was checking up on him, calling to make sure he would fill in for Andy and the three-thirty class. Adam didn’t need reminders. He was here to help out, and that’s what he’d do.
Well, that was the price for arriving early: too much time to talk. His dad might have traded a suit and tie for a white sparring uniform called a dobok, but he still harbored the soul of an accountant. He liked every task to be itemized, completed and checked off.
Maybe that was where Andy got his extreme need for routine.
Robert Snapp was hunched over his desk, muttering about paperwork and frowning. He still believed, even after almost a decade, that somehow Snapp’s Studio would turn a decent profit. Maybe in the big city, but here in Scorpion Ridge?
Getting sick had only made him want to succeed more.
“You wanted to talk to me?” Adam had ignored his dad’s phone call, but it was harder to ignore the man.
“Sit down.”
Adam reminded himself that he was a foot taller than his dad and that he’d been living on his own a long time: two years working at BAA and five years in three different states as a well-paid muralist.
But all he could remember was that every time he was called into his dad’s office, whether it was here at Snapp’s Studio or at home, he would hear how displeased his father was with him. Adam had sat through hundreds of lectures grilling him on grades that were never the best, goals that were not met and how in the Snapp household everyone had a job.
Problem was, the job his dad wanted him to do and the job Adam had been born to do were two different things. Choosing a paintbrush over a “reliable” career had put the two men on opposite sides, and neither was willing to swim to the other.
Until Dad got sick.
“It’s good to have you home,” Dad said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.
Adam started to remind his dad that this was temporary, but stopped himself. Adam had had five years to miss his family and to consider the real meaning of home.
“It’s good to be home.”
One thing his ex-girlfriend Stacey had taught him was that home was temporary and love wasn’t always unconditional. To some it was the means to an end.
Now, though, his dad needed him. Dad had injured his back three months ago at the studio. He still moved slowly, and a wrong move would put him in bed. But then a blood test had turned up something more serious: pancreatic cancer. His parents had been very optimistic about treatment and recovery, but Adam hadn’t thought twice about coming home. He wanted to see the world and work a career he loved, but he could put his family first for a while.
Taking a deep breath, Adam reminded himself to keep thinking as positively as his parents, because thinking any other way made the truth all too clear.
His father could die.
So until his dad’s health returned, Adam would teach the classes that his brother and the other instructor, Mr. Chee, couldn’t.
“Glad you’re here early,” his father said. It was his idea of a compliment.
“I was working over at Yolanda’s. She’ll be opening on time.” Adam waited for the chitchat to end. His father wanted to talk about something more important than what he’d done that day.
“She’s a hard worker. So was her mother.” Adam’s dad approved of hard workers, whether they be a waitress at the local restaurant, or a grocery store clerk, or a housekeeper.
Roving mural painter didn’t make his list, though. It didn’t make Yolanda’s list, either. She’d stopped speaking to him when he dropped out of school, muttering something about people not knowing when they had it good. Back then, he’d thought she was talking about his dropping out, home life and art. Now, after working with her these past few months, he realized she’d just meant his home life.
She was right. He’d taken his family, especially Andy, for granted. His talent, too. Now that both were in jeopardy, he realized just how much he could lose.
Adam smiled, thinking about Yolanda. At first glance she was quiet, deceivingly hesitant, but underneath she was all fire and opinions. But she never got flustered. Not even when they’d worked together at Bridget’s Animal Adventure. If they’d had a problem, she’d just calmly tug on his sleeve and say, “The anaconda is loose” with no more concern than if she were asking for a tissue.
But she’d made it clear that she felt he should charge for his murals. She was a bit more impressed that he did caricatures for pay on the weekend, but only a bit.
She was too much of a Type A. Always with her calendar filled with tasks and no time to watch the sunset. Let alone enjoy it.
Just like his father.
“You had something you wanted to say to me?” Adam chose not to sit but remained standing. He didn’t want his father looking down on him.
His dad closed the folder he’d been fingering. The pause was typical, but had a different feel. Adam started to worry. Finally, his dad said, “Shut the door.”
Adam did as requested.
“Your mom and I are going to get a place in Phoenix for a while, close to the Mayo Clinic. The doctors want to do exploratory surgery to see what can be done—either good news or bad.”
“Will this improve your chances?”
“I’m not going to sugarcoat this for you anymore. It might give me five more years.”
Adam’s breath left his chest like a vacuum taking air from the room. The lights seemed to dim. And Adam, who didn’t cry, felt his throat close and his eyes water. He couldn’t talk.
His father continued. “We’ll be relying on you a bit more.”
Adam nodded. His parents couldn’t stay in Phoenix if no one was around to take care of Andy, not just at home but here, at Snapp’s Studio. “Sure, I’ll do it.” Unbidden came the thought: this might be the last thing my father asks of me.
His dad blinked, clearly surprised. “You will? It means working more hours at the studio and some real time with your brother.”
“Of course. When will you be going?”
“We’re working on—” his dad hesitated “—on getting the money together.”
Adam swallowed. He’d have money to give his parents if he’d been a little wiser. If he hadn’t trusted in Stacey’s supposed love.
Stacey Baer had wanted to be an artist, so she claimed. He’d met her when he’d been commissioned to do a mural for the town of Wildrose, Illinois, and she’d insinuated herself into his work and his life almost immediately. She’d climbed right up on the catwalk beside Adam as he started sketching the train and all the history of Wildrose, population two thousand and three—counting him.
He’d loved the old building the town was turning into a museum. It had character. No one was threatening to paint it Kool-Aid orange! Having someone next to him who appreciated art had made the job all the better.
He’d shared his craft, his apartment and his money.
Growing up in Scorpion Ridge, he’d been insulated. No one had taken advantage of him, ever. And he’d made sure no one took advantage of Andy. They were the Snapp brothers. People admired his family, especially his dad, who’d sacrificed so much. They were pillars of the town. They paid their bills, attended parades, went to church... It had ill prepared Adam for the realities of life.
Six months later, as soon as he finished the mural, Stacey had cleaned out his bank account and broken his heart. Last he’d heard, she was in Boston. That is if she hadn’t run out of his cash. He hadn’t been able to paint since.
“You need money, Dad?”
“I’ll get it.”
Which probably meant Adam’s grandmother was already involved. She’d been careful with every cent, but still couldn’t have that much to spare. More than ever, Adam wished he had the money he’d earned and the muse that Stacey had taken when she left. He’d been foolish. And now he realized the cost.
“How much will the surgery cost?”
“Between medical bills and living expenses...at least twenty thousand dollars. But I don’t want you to worry about that. The operation’s been scheduled for a few weeks from now.”
“You gonna be able to get around okay until then?” Already Dad was missing work, sitting down a lot when he used to always be on the move. He wasn’t eating much, either.
“I plan on giving it my all.”
“Andy know?”
“Not yet.”
Adam wasn’t sure he wanted to be in the room when Mom told his big brother about the change in his routine. Older by just two minutes, Andy was brilliant, which sometimes made living with his disorder harder. People started to expect him to be brilliant in everything, which was impossible.
Looking around his father’s office, Adam took in the pictures. They were mostly of Dad and Andy. Andy was shorter than Adam, coming up to Adam’s chest. He was thicker, too, but not by much. Tae Kwon Do was to thank for his fairly slender build because Andy loved to eat. They both had the same brown, unruly hair, the same nose, same smile. Adam was a bit more prone to whiskers, though. Adam was in a few of the photos. He and his brother both were featured in the one where his dad had been painting the words Snapp’s Studio onto the building. Each brother held a paintbrush and was looking at the camera, both innocent still, not realizing how much time and energy this new endeavor would take.
Adam had gone the whole route, all the way to black belt. He’d competed and done well. But in about eighth grade, he’d backed off, realizing that Tae Kwon Do was something his brother needed more.
And really, Adam had his art. Snapp’s Studio was awash in murals. It had been Adam’s first blank wall and the one time when his father hadn’t shook his head at the waste of time.
“Are you going to ask—” Adam began.
“GG already said she’d move in, too, while we’re gone.”
“Did you talk her into teaching the senior session?”
His dad laughed. For all their angst, Dad’s disappointment and Adam’s disregard for “going into a profession where you can make a living,” they shared one trait. Both fiercely loved and protected their family, especially Andy.
Adam wondered if the bond between him and his brother would have been as strong if Andy hadn’t had autism. He doubted it.
When Adam was in fifth grade, his mother had told him that having an autistic brother made the family more of a unit, working together for the good of the whole. Andy didn’t get other people’s jokes, often said the wrong thing and liked routine. He was perfect at Snapp’s Studio, though. He’d laugh at the little kids’ jokes no matter if they were funny or not. In turn, the kids didn’t notice or care when he said the wrong thing. And, as long as the kids tried to follow him, that was routine enough. Best of all for them, he clapped no matter how the students performed.
“You’d need to move back home,” his dad said.
Adam nodded. He really liked living in the groundskeeper’s cabin over at Bridget’s Animal Adventure. It was off the beaten path and felt right. His best memories were there: learning how to make it on his own, realizing that he could make a living off his art. Best of all, he could paint there and leave his supplies where they lay. The house he’d grown up in hadn’t offered that option. It was a “clean up when you’re done” kind of atmosphere where get-er-done meant get-er-done in one setting. Most of Adam’s projects took a week if not more.
“I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”
“I might be able to handle things without GG needing to move in,” Adam offered.
Loretta was in her late eighties and still sold realty. Granted, those transactions were few and far between and mostly just for dedicated clients—most as old as she was. But she had her own routine, and it wouldn’t jibe with Andy’s.
“We appreciate it, Adam. You can make the guest room your own,” his father offered.
But it had been a long time since Adam had felt anything was his own.
* * *
CHECKING HER WATCH, Yolanda decided to finish stocking the last few rows of the children’s room. The decor there was the opposite of the history and nonfiction room. The room had not a shred of seriousness in its atmosphere; instead, it was bright, colorful and inviting.
She’d already spent way too much time investigating what was probably a harmless old woman who simply wanted to read about the history of a town her forefathers helped create. With that in mind, Yolanda went looking for the books she’d left waiting on a shelf in the middle of the second floor.
Two Ramona books were on the floor. Yolanda picked them up. Their author, Beverly Cleary, had started life as a librarian before writing some of the best children’s books. Five-year-old Yolanda had begged for a chapter of Henry and Beezus each night.
Two books remained on the shelf where Yolanda had placed them earlier.
Two?
Yolanda frowned. She only remembered carrying three books in the series. Two were on the floor; only one was supposed to be on the shelf.
“How funny,” she whispered as she picked up the top book, which was clearly not intended for the children’s area. It was dark blue, dusty and had faded embossed gold lettering proclaiming the title Stories of Scorpion Ridge, Arizona.
Unease followed Yolanda as she walked toward the history and nonfiction room. She really wished that Adam hadn’t left. She was sure this book hadn’t been in her hands this morning when she’d been interrupted by the old woman. The book certainly hadn’t made its way to the shelf by itself.
Someone else had been in her used bookstore.
Or perhaps the old woman had found the book—without Yolanda noticing?—and then realized it was the wrong one.
Yolanda might have chosen to forget the whole incident if she hadn’t been a stickler for details. Inside the cover page a name was written. Black ink, perfectly formed letters, all caps, looking almost like one word.
CHESTER VENTIMIGLIA
