Читать книгу A Cloud of Suspicion - Patricia Davids - Страница 11

The house wasn’t much to look at.

Patrick turned off his bike and sat staring at the sky-blue cottage situated near the outskirts of Loomis. His childhood home, such as it was, hadn’t seen a new coat of paint in years. Perhaps not since he’d left a decade ago.

The steamy Louisiana humidity wasn’t kind to bare wood. He’d be lucky if there wasn’t rot in the steps leading up to the narrow front porch.

He put down the kickstand and swung his leg over the seat. Standing upright, he stretched a few residual kinks out of his back. Los Angeles was a long, long way from Loomis.

He’d spent last night at the hotel because his stepfather’s attorney’s office had been closed when Patrick rolled into town. In a way, the delay had been good. He certainly hadn’t wanted to revisit his personal ghosts at night. It was hard enough in the light of day.

The only bright spot in the whole trip had been seeing Shelby Mason again. It surprised him how attractive he found her. He’d made a habit of avoiding serious involvements with women, and with good reason.

What would it be like to be an ordinary man in Loomis? To speak to a pretty woman without worrying about the stares and whispers?

Forget it. It’s not going to happen. If I needed proof, I got it this morning.

He was here to settle his stepfather’s estate, nothing more. He couldn’t change the past. All he could hope for was to profit from the present.

Avoiding the inevitable for a few minutes longer, he walked around the side of the house.

His boots crunched on the crushed oyster shell path that led past the detached garage to the backyard. He noticed the garage was in better shape than the house. The outside of the building was covered with new vinyl siding.

His stepdad had always enjoyed working in his shop, tinkering on his car or his lawnmower. A love of engines was about the only thing the two of them had in common.

Walking to the rear of the house, Patrick stopped at the sight that met him. The grass was knee-high. Honeysuckle vines and kudzu ran rampant over the chain link fence at the back of the property. An air of neglect hung over everything.

Looking at the single live oak tree in the center of the yard, he noticed a piece of weathered rope dangling from a branch. It was all that was left of the tire swing he’d used to hone his throwing arm.

He closed his eyes and breathed in. The coy, sweet fragrance of the flowering honeysuckle took him back to his childhood.

He could almost hear his mother’s voice calling him in to supper from a game of hide-and-seek with the neighborhood kids. How many summer evenings had he spent catching fireflies in this yard? How many nights had he camped out here under a makeshift tent with his best buddy, Wyatt? How many times had Wyatt’s family taken him along on their fishing trips to their cabin in the woods?

Sadness crept over Patrick. How could so much heartache and pain reside in the same place where he had known such happiness as a kid?

“I’m surprised you came back.”

Patrick’s eyes flew open at the sound of a man’s voice. Turning around, he found himself staring at his friend, Wyatt, grown up now and watching with dark eyes narrowed in displeasure from the back porch of the house next door.

Patrick swallowed the bitterness rising to the back of his throat. “Hello, Wyatt. It’s nice to see you, too.”

Wyatt Tibbs dropped his gaze. His lips pressed into a thin line, then he said, “Sorry about your stepdad.”

“Thanks.” Patrick motioned toward the well-kept white bungalow with blue shutters where Wyatt stood. “How are your folks?”

Making small talk was easier than tackling the big issue that lay between the two men. At least it was something.

“They moved to Arizona a few years back. I own the place now. Are you staying long?” Wyatt’s tone made it plain that Patrick wasn’t welcome.

Resentment simmered as Patrick stared at his former friend. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll move back here for good,” he suggested with thick sarcasm.

A woman’s voice called out from inside Wyatt’s house. “Honey, breakfast is ready.”

Wyatt glanced from Patrick to his own door and then back. “Staying isn’t a good idea.”

“I didn’t do it, you know.” Patrick had no idea why he felt compelled to defend himself again after ten years. No one had believed him then. Nothing had changed.

Wyatt stared at him for a long moment. “Like I said, staying isn’t a good idea.” He walked into his house, letting the screen door slam behind him.

Annoyed with himself for caring so much, Patrick blew out a breath between pursed lips and headed back to the front of the house. He needed to get rid of this part of his life. For good.

Climbing the steps, he pulled out the key his stepfather’s attorney had given him a short time ago and unlocked the front door.

The clinking of silverware against china and the murmur of voices surrounded Shelby as she waited on everyone to finish their French donuts. After licking a dusting of powdered sugar from her lips, she took a sip of her second cup of coffee.

Across the table, Wendy began folding and unfolding her napkin. “I heard they might cancel the Mother of the Year Pageant.”

Jocelyn nodded. “Ava Renault mentioned that the planning committee has seriously been considering it.”

Wendy crossed her arms and rubbed her hands up and down her sleeves. “After Jillian Morrison got a note telling her to withdraw or end up dead and then poor Nancy Bailey had bleach thrown in her face—well, it’s a wonder anyone is willing to be a contestant. I certainly don’t want to be nominated.”

“What do you think about canceling it?” Shelby asked Jocelyn.

“On one hand, I see it as an act of respect for Angelina and Dylan’s deaths and Leah’s disappearance, but on the other hand, it means the town is giving in to fear. I hope they don’t cancel it.”

Looking from Shelby to Jocelyn, Wendy said, “I know y’all were close friends with Leah in high school so you know her better than almost anyone. Do you think there’s any truth to the rumor that Dylan Renault is Sarah’s father?”

Shelby bit her lip. It wasn’t possible, was it? Yet Dylan Renault’s dying words had been, “Sarah’s father.” Words whispered in the ear of FBI agent Sam Pierce, Jocelyn’s husband.

No one was sure what Dylan meant by them but there was plenty of speculation.

Sensing Shelby’s hesitation, Wendy arched her eyebrows. “You know something you aren’t telling us.”

Shaking her head in denial, Shelby said, “I only know that Leah worked as Dylan’s secretary before she married Earl and that Dylan made her uncomfortable with his attention. She stopped working for him pretty abruptly after that company Christmas party four years ago.”

Jocelyn tipped her head slightly as she stared at Shelby. “Did something happen at that party?”

A shiver ran over Shelby’s skin. She didn’t like thinking about that night. She had attended at Leah’s insistence but had become so ill she later fainted. The whole night was nothing but a weird blur.

Afterward, Shelby began having nightmares—the same dream over and over again. A disembodied face looking down at her, laughing at her.

Pushing aside thoughts of her haunting dream, Shelby nodded. “Something happened that upset Leah a great deal, but she never talked about it.”

Jocelyn pushed aside her plate and folded her hands on the table. “Have you told Sam about this?”

“No.”

“I think you should. The FBI has been searching for a connection between Leah’s disappearance and Dylan’s murder.”

“I wish I could remember more. I got sick at the party and Leah did, too. I have this dream about that night, but I’m not sure what it means.”

“I might be able to help,” Jocelyn suggested.

Embarrassed, Shelby shook her head. “It’s just a dream.”

Wendy’s eyes narrowed as she leaned forward. “Who else was there? Maybe they know something.”

“A lot of people were there, but most of them were friends of Dylan’s. Not exactly my social circle.”

Shelby glanced toward the door. A long-forgotten face swam into focus. “Wendell Bixby was there. He worked for Renault Corporation back then. I could talk to him and see if he remembers anything odd about Dylan or Leah’s behavior.”

“Such idle gossip benefits no one, Miss Mason.” The hard, cultured voice of Charla Renault caught Shelby unaware. She hadn’t heard Charla’s electric wheelchair coming up behind her.

The scent of White Shoulders perfume mingled with the coffee and cinnamon in the air. Shelby turned in her seat to face the mother of the most recent murder victim in Loomis.

Charla’s dark eyes glittered with cold anger. “My son was never interested in someone as common as Leah Farley.”

Shelby wished she hadn’t been caught in the act of talking about the woman’s son. She wanted to defend Leah, but Charla had a way of making Shelby, and most of Loomis, feel small and insignificant. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Renault.”

The man who worked as Charla’s driver and servant rose from the booth behind Shelby. He settled his hat on his thick gray hair and ran a hand down the front of his impeccably pressed black chauffeur’s jacket. Apparently, he had been waiting for Charla to finish her breakfast, because he nodded to her and asked, “Shall I bring the car around, madame?”

“Yes.” She dismissed him with a wave. Although Charla Renault maintained a regal air, neither wealth nor social position had spared the matriarch of the Renault family her share of pain. Confined to a wheelchair after the car accident that claimed her husband’s life, Charla still ruled the family with an iron fist in a kid glove.

Dressed today in a pink twinset with a simple choker of small pink pearls at her throat, Charla looked the epitome of Southern class, but the death of her only son had been a blow from which many wondered if she would ever recover. Now she had only her daughter, Ava, to carry on the family traditions and businesses.

The word that Ava had recently become engaged to Max Pershing, son of Charla’s archrival and longtime social enemy, Lenore Pershing, was a prime bit of news making the rounds. The two families had been feuding for ages. Shelby could only pray that Max and Ava’s love would put an end to their family’s long-standing grudge once and for all.

Jocelyn spoke up. “It’s nice to see you out and about, Mrs. Renault.”

“Thank you.” Charla inclined her head, ever so slightly. As always, not a single dark hair dared slip out of place or show the smallest touch of gray. In her lap, her Jack Russell terrier, Rhett, growled low in his throat.

Charla laid a hand on the dog’s head to silence him and focused her gaze on Shelby. “I was just on my way to see you, Miss Mason.”

Taken aback, Shelby stuttered, “You…you wanted to see me?”

“Yes. Since my son’s untimely passing, I have been pondering how best to honor his memory in the community that he served with such devotion and dignity. I am considering making a sizable donation to the city library in his name.”

Shelby was sure she must look like a stunned pelican with her gaping mouth. “Mrs. Renault, I’m not sure what to say.”

Charla held up one hand, silencing Shelby as easily as she had the dog. “I’m also considering funding a scholarship in his name at the college. I would, of course, need assurance that the institution I choose will provide a lasting memorial that is befitting of the Renault name. I’d like to see a proposal from the library board on such a memorial by the end of next week.”

“Next week?” Shelby blinked hard.

“The dean at Loomis College assured me that a week would be sufficient time to present a plan. If you don’t feel up to the task, Miss Mason, I must wonder if you’re the right person to be in charge of our venerable and historic library.”

As the youngest head librarian ever employed by the city, Shelby had faced her share of detractors when she applied for the job, but she knew the library was prospering under her guidance.

Still, the city never had enough money in the budget to cover all the expenses and upkeep the “venerable and historic” building needed. Old and needy would be a more apt description of the place.

The chance to gain a sizable donation from the Renault family was a windfall that couldn’t be ignored.

“We have a general meeting of the board a week from Thursday, Mrs. Renault. You’re welcome to attend. I’m sure I can work up a proposal that will satisfy both your needs and the needs of our community.”

“Good, Miss Mason. However, should it come to my attention that you’re continuing to engage in baseless gossip about my son…well, I’m sure y’all can see how that would influence my decision.”

“Of course, Mrs. Renault.” It meant Charla would take her money elsewhere without batting an eye.

With another slight tilt of her head, Charla maneuvered her chair down the aisle toward the door, where the owner of Café Au Lait hurried to hold it open for her.

Wendy blew out a deep breath. “Her son’s death hasn’t changed her a bit.”

“Why do you say that?” Jocelyn asked.

“Because she still enjoys pitting people against each other. Shelby, you know the college will be crawling all over themselves to gain the old gal’s favor. They’ll cater to her every whim.”

“I’ll simply have to convince her that we can provide a better memorial than they can.”

Jocelyn gathered up her purse. “How are you going to do that?”

Shaking her head, Shelby admitted, “I have absolutely no idea.”

Wendy wrapped the last beignet in a napkin and stuffed it in her handbag. “Did you like him? I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but was Dylan Renault the kind of man who deserved to have a scholarship or a new library wing named after him?”

Shelby smiled sadly. “I didn’t like him, but I can’t blame his mother for wanting to see that her son’s name is treated with respect. We know it doesn’t matter if a dozen libraries are named after him. God is the final judge of us all. Only He knows the soul of Dylan Renault.”

Jocelyn laid a tip on the table. “Are you going to talk to Sam about the Christmas party?”

Shelby hesitated. She didn’t actually know anything. It was more of a feeling. Still, Jocelyn and Ava were close friends. What if it got back to Charla that Shelby was talking about Dylan again?

The college will be rubbing their hands with glee over their new donation, that’s what.

“I’ll call Sam if I remember something concrete. Otherwise, don’t say anything about it. I feel silly for mentioning it.”

After paying the check, the women left the café. With a round of quick hugs and promises to meet again next week, they parted ways. Jocelyn left for her office, while Shelby and Wendy walked toward the library. Shelby found herself checking the street for Patrick’s motorcycle, but to no avail.

She had been stunned to see him again after all this time, but she was honest enough to admit that surprise had been only part of her pulse-pounding reaction to the man. He was dangerously attractive, even more so now than when she had last seen him.

What she found truly disturbing was how much she wanted to see him again.

After crossing Main Street, Shelby and Wendy cut through the park on a paved path that led toward the city library. The smell of damp, newly cut grass hung in the air and mixed with the scent of flowers and blooming shrubs. The two women hurried past the small white gazebo standing alone at the center of the park.

At first glance, the lattice-covered structure looked picture-perfect in the setting, but on closer inspection one could see the paint was peeling and some of the slats were broken.

People who lived in Loomis knew that a woman had been murdered inside the gazebo twenty-five years ago. The death of that young mother was the reason Loomis started their annual Mother’s Day Festival with their Mother of the Year Pageant.

The pageant had grown from humble beginnings into the town’s biggest event with prize money worth thousands of dollars going to the mother who was chosen as the winner. Over the years, the money, gifts and prestige of winning had sparked some serious rivalries and even resulted in foul play among the women vying for Loomis’s most coveted title.

The mystery of the woman’s death had been solved when Vera Peel confessed to killing the amateur photographer because she had been taking pictures of the bayou the day Vera killed her husband and his lover there.

Even knowing how and why the woman had died hadn’t altered people’s perception of the gazebo. Only newcomers or visitors used it. The locals continued to give it a wide berth.

Suddenly a creaking, scuffling sound made Shelby and Wendy spin around in fright. A dark figure sat on the floor inside the structure.

It took a heart-stopping second for Shelby to recognize Chuck Peters, the town drunk who panhandled and did odd jobs around the city.

“I didn’t see nothing. I didn’t,” he muttered, and lurched to his feet.

Shelby sucked in several calming breaths, then took a step toward him. “Mr. Peters, you frightened us.”

He swayed slightly as he peered at them through his thick, black-rimmed glasses. During one of his sober spells, Chuck had worked briefly for Shelby’s father at his woodworking shop. After her father passed away, Chuck started doing odd jobs for the reclusive Vera Peel. With his benefactress now in jail for murder, Shelby had to wonder how he was managing.

Wendy tugged at Shelby’s arm. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Mr. Peters, do you need me to call Reverend Harmon for you?”

His eyes widened with fear. “No! Don’t call him. Don’t tell anyone you saw me here. Don’t tell. Swear you won’t tell!”

Hoping to reassure him, Shelby added quickly, “But Reverend Harmon can get you a hot meal and a place to stay.”

“No, I like this place. I can see who’s coming.” His eyes darted around like frightened birds seeking a way out of a cage.

“You can’t stay here. The police won’t let you,” she said gently.

It was obvious that he was more disturbed than usual. He ran his hands through his greasy, thinning red hair. “Don’t tell ’em I’m here. I didn’t see nothing that night. You can’t say I did.”

“What night, Mr. Peters?”

“Can’t say. Don’t know. Didn’t see nothing that night.”

Wendy pulled harder on Shelby’s arm. “Let’s go. You can’t help him if he doesn’t want it.”

Shelby allowed herself to be led away. “I’m going to call Reverend Harmon anyway. He’s dealt with Chuck in the past.”

“That’s a good idea. Maybe he can get the old loony back into the mental hospital where he belongs.”

“Wendy!” Shelby glanced back, but Chuck didn’t seem to be paying attention to them. He was making his way out of the gazebo with unsteady steps.

Beyond him, Shelby noticed another figure lurking in the shadows near the path. The man turned away abruptly before Shelby could see who it was.

“I’m only suggesting that Reverend Harmon can supply him with the professional help he needs.” Wendy defended her suggestion. “Let’s get out of this park. It’s creepy in here.”

Shelby had to agree, although she had always enjoyed the peace and quiet of the secluded place. Now, the tall live oak trees hung with Spanish moss seemed vaguely threatening. The thick azalea bushes laden with blooms seemed to offer hiding places for danger along with their beauty.

Like nearly everyone in Loomis, she found the fear of an unknown killer in their midst had changed her perspective of her hometown.

Mustiness assailed Patrick as he stepped into the front parlor. Little had changed in the years that he had been gone. The same faded area rug still covered the center of the hardwood floor. The same beige sofa sat in front of the small bay window. Dirt darkened the armrests of the matching chair across the room.

There was an empty coffee mug and stain rings on the small table beside the chair. He could picture his stepdad sitting there, staring out the window at the town that shunned him for raising a monster.

Patrick shook off the vision. For some odd reason his stepfather had stipulated in his will that if Patrick came back and settled the estate in person, it would all go to him. He didn’t know why. Maybe the old man wasn’t quite right in the head toward the end.

Patrick had almost refused. But the chance to gain enough to help him secure his future overrode his reluctance. Nothing else would have brought him back to Loomis.

He had a week or two to go through the place and get the house ready to go on the market. After that, he didn’t have to hang around to make sure someone actually bought it. His father’s attorney had been clear on that issue. All Patrick had to do was go through the belongings in the house and see to the repairs.

Looking around, Patrick began to feel a little more hopeful. The place wasn’t a total ruin. With a little paint and elbow grease he should be able to sell it. How ironic would it be if his stepfather had actually handed him the means to make his dreams come true?

Before today, Patrick figured it would take him another two years of scrimping and saving to buy into a partnership at the custom bike shop where he worked. His plan was to become part owner and eventually sole proprietor of Wolfwind Cycles.

Bikes were his life. His only love. A man could count on a good machine.

If he could make enough from the sale of this place, he could push his agenda forward by several years.

Walking around the living room, Patrick tried to take a quick inventory but found himself touching things and thinking about them. His mother had loved the painting of the old barn over the fireplace. He picked up the small pewter unicorn from the mantel. He had given it to her for Christmas the year before she died.

Closing his eyes, he recalled the feel of her hugs, the scent of her perfume, the happiness in her laughter. He searched for similar memories of his stepfather but couldn’t find them.

All he could hear was his stepfather’s angry voice raised in accusations. All he could see was the disappointment and repugnance etched on the face of the only father Patrick had ever known.

Opening his eyes, Patrick sighed. This wasn’t going to be as easy as he had hoped. Folding his fingers around the trinket, he shoved it deep in his pockets and rocked back on his heels.

There was a stack of books on the table beside his stepfather’s chair. Picking up the top book, Patrick saw it was a murder mystery by a popular new writer. He opened the cover. The book had been checked out of the Loomis library three months before.

Great. I’ve got overdue fines to pay.

He snapped the book shut and returned it to the top of the stack.

Someone, most likely the attorney, had gathered together a pile of mail and left it on the seat of the chair. Picking it up, Patrick sat and began to sort through it. Most of it was junk mail and old newspapers, but he did find a few bills he would have to take care of.

When he came across a late notice from the library, he read the note with special interest. It was signed by Shelby Mason.

Shelby, with the gorgeous red hair and roses in her cheeks. So she had moved from working at the college library to working at the city library. Why hadn’t she left this miserable town behind?

She’d been a sweet kid. He had wanted to ask her about her life this morning at the café, but he had left instead when he saw the number of cold stares leveled in his direction.

He’d cut short the conversation as much for her sake as for his. The gossip machine in Loomis could grind her up and spit her out in no time just for passing the time of day with him.

He tossed the letter aside with a weary shake of his head. It seemed he still had a need to protect the underdog.

What made him think Shelby Mason needed protection? In Loomis, he was the underdog. A cur no one would speak up for.

He rose and wandered through the kitchen and down the hall that led to the back of the house. His old bedroom was the first door on the right.

Stepping inside, he wasn’t surprised to find it stripped bare. His football trophies, his track ribbons, his posters of Easy Rider, Santana and Jennifer Lopez were all gone. His stepfather had gotten rid of every trace of him. Only the blue drapes remained to remind Patrick of the way the room once looked. He pulled the door shut.

The next room down the hall was his father’s bedroom. Easing the door open, Patrick looked in. The bed was neatly made. There were a few clothes scattered around, but nothing of his mother’s.

He frowned when he saw the empty bookcases lining two walls. Had his father gotten rid of his mother’s books?

Diana Rivers had been an English teacher with a true love of literature and history and a passion for collecting old books. Some of Patrick’s fondest memories were of the two of them traveling to estate sales, rummage sales, even auctions looking for unusual books on the state’s history or first editions of her favorite authors.

Once, at a garage sale in Covington she paid a dollar for a first edition of a Mark Twain novel and had spoken of it gleefully for months afterwards.

A lumber mill worker like his father and his grandfather before him, Ben Rivers had put up with his wife’s odd obsession, but he never understood why words were so important to her.

Patrick closed the bedroom door and turned to the last small room at the end of the hall. It had been his mother’s sewing room. When he pushed open the door, he found himself confronted with a room stacked full of packing boxes.

Lifting the lid off the nearest one, he found it contained some of his mother’s clothes. A second box held more of the same, but he relaxed when he opened the third box. In it were dozens of his mother’s books.

Sinking onto the dusty floor, Patrick drew out a novel bound with thick red leather and embossed with gold lettering. He breathed in the scent of the old paper and truly smiled for the first time since he had crossed the Louisiana state line.

Shelby’s day passed in a busy blur at the city library. After the weekend there were always plenty of books in the drive-up return book bin to be checked in, reshelved or mended. A rush of customers in the early afternoon kept her busy and left her little time to think about the type of memorial program she could develop for Mrs. Renault.

As busy as she was, she still found herself thinking about Patrick Rivers and the odd way he had smiled at her.

She’d had such a crush on him in college. Of course, he had barely noticed her.

As the captain of a winning football team he’d had his pick of girls, but he’d been more than a jock. He’d spent plenty of late nights studying at the campus library. Sometimes, when he stayed until she had to lock up, he would walk her to her dorm. It made her feel so special.

Looking back, her infatuation seemed silly now. Her dorm had been on the way to his place. He hadn’t really been walking her home. He’d just been walking in the same direction and being kind. It had been his kindness that made the accusations about him so hard to believe.

Shelby recalled the night vividly. Patrick had just led their team to a regional championship. Most of the campus had turned out to celebrate the big win with a bonfire in a secluded part of the bayou.

Shelby had watched the merrymakers with a touch of envy. It wasn’t that she wanted to drink or party, she just wanted Patrick to notice her.

He didn’t, of course, because she stayed in the background, a shy mouse of a girl that no one noticed. Not like Coral Travis. Everyone noticed her.

Standing by herself in the shadows that night, Shelby overheard a disturbing conversation. She recognized Coral’s voice telling someone that she was going home with Patrick, whether he knew it or not. He was her ticket out of Loomis.

Before Shelby could retreat, Coral had come out of a stand of small trees and spied her.

Shelby could still hear the mocking tone of Coral’s voice. “What are you doing here? Hoping some guy will get drunk enough to ask you out?”

From some unknown source of strength, Shelby managed to reply, “Patrick deserves better than you.”

Coral only laughed and said, “Get out of the sandbox, chubby, this is where the big kids play.”

Mortified, Shelby watched as Coral sauntered off and insinuated herself next to Patrick. The two of them left together less than half an hour later. Shelby took her bruised ego and wounded heart home where she indulged in a good cry.

The next day the news of Patrick’s arrest for rape spread across the campus like wildfire. Nearly everyone believed it was true.

Would it have made a difference if I’d spoken up and told the police what Coral said? But what reason would Coral have had to lie about such a serious charge?

The same questions had haunted Shelby for weeks afterward. When Patrick left town, she thought the answers didn’t matter anymore. Until now.

A patron approached Shelby for help finding a book. Pulling her mind out of the past, she dismissed Patrick Rivers from her thoughts and got back to work.

When five o’clock rolled around, Shelby and Wendy closed up and walked to their cars in the parking lot behind the building. The lot, shared with the town hall, the library and several other businesses, was quickly emptying as people headed home.

Shelby caught sight of Chuck Peters standing at the street corner checking a pay phone for loose coins. She knew a moment of guilt. She hadn’t found time to call Reverend Harmon.

Chuck glanced in her direction. He spun around and hurried away, casting frightened glances over his shoulder.

“Shelby, look,” Wendy said, drawing her attention away from the odd behavior of the little man.

Following Wendy’s gaze, Shelby saw Coral Travis talking to Wendell beside her car. An angry expression hardened Coral’s sharp features. It was plain the two were arguing.

Wendy’s eyes grew round as she relished more gossip. “I wonder what Wendell Bixby thinks about Patrick’s return? A city councilman running for mayor can’t be thrilled to have his fiancée’s unhappy past raked up again.”

Knowing the town as well as she did, Shelby knew that was exactly what would happen. Wendy wasn’t the only one who liked to gossip.

As Shelby stopped at her own car, she noticed a white slip of paper waving from beneath the driver’s side wiper blade. Expecting it to be simply another Mother’s Day Festival flyer, she unfolded it and stared at the message in astonishment.

The block-printed note said,

Keep your fat mouth shut about that night or you’ll regret it.