“COME ON, SON, you can’t tell me you’re surprised I’m planning a subdivision for the Whitfield property.” A.J. gripped his putter and tapped the golf ball. The ball rolled along the green felt runway stretched across his office floor and dropped into the metal cup with a clink. He looked up at Rory and frowned. “You are going to seal the deal with Remy, aren’t you?”
Rory shifted in his chair. “I plan to, but not as a representative of Dalton Properties.”
A.J. dropped his jaw and stared. “What are you talking about?”
“I won’t pressure her into selling her land for something she doesn’t want.”
“Hah. She might want the money. But don’t tell me you’re planning to buy the property yourself. No way you could swing a deal like that.”
Rory avoided his grandfather’s eyes but kept his voice steady. “I haven’t worked out all the details yet.”
A.J. coaxed another ball into position with his putter. “You’re not forgetting I own the property your shop sits on. Prime land like that would go in the blink of an eye.”
“Go ahead and sell it. I can find another location.”
A.J. shook his head. “I don’t want you to find another location. I want you to come to your senses and give up that hobby and work full-time here, where you belong.”
Rory stiffened. “You know this isn’t what I want to do with my life.”
“Have you ever given this business a real chance?” Without waiting for a reply, A.J. smacked the ball. It followed a straight path for a couple seconds and then veered off and missed the cup. “Drat!”
“I worked here summers while going to college and part-time since then,” Rory said. “That’s enough to know whether or not this is something I want to do.”
“You’ve put in time, but your heart hasn’t been in it.”
“That’s exactly the problem. My heart’s not in it.”
A.J. walked to his desk and propped the putter against the side. “We’ll plan on you being here full-time by—” he leaned over to flip the pages of his calendar “—October first.”
“No.”
“You’re not giving up this business, son.” A.J. leveled him a stern look.
Rory gritted his teeth. “Please, don’t call me ‘son.’ Your son is dead.”
A.J. drew a sharp breath.
Realizing how cruel his words sounded, Rory wished he could take them back. But A.J. had pushed him into a corner.
A.J. let a few seconds elapse and then said in a calm tone, “You don’t need to remind me. Not a day goes by I don’t miss him. But you are like a son to me. And so like your father.”
“No, I’m not like him. I’m not the same as either of you. I am my own person.”
“Of course,” A.J. said soothingly. “And you can be your own person—right here. You can still play with your cars, as a hobby. I have my golf—” he held up his putter “—and you have your cars.”
Rory stared at the floor.
“I don’t understand you, Rory. Any other grandson would be grateful to have a livelihood like this handed to him. This is what your father would want. If you think so much of him, honor his memory.”
“I’ll find some other way to honor him.” Rory clamped his jaw shut and folded his arms.
Neither spoke for several minutes. Then A.J. said in clipped tones, “Okay, enough for now. There are some accounts on your desk to go over.”
Rory stood. “Sure. I’ll take care of them. And you’ll have my resignation by the end of the day.”
Rory headed down the hall to his office in a daze. Although he’d long dreamed of resigning from his job at Dalton Properties, he never expected it to happen like this. He felt as though he were stepping off a ledge with the ground nowhere in sight.
And yet, a few hours later, when he placed his resignation on his grandfather’s desk—thankfully, A.J. had already left for the day—and walked out into the sunlight, he felt better than he had in a long, long time.
* * *
“HOW’RE YOU DOING down here?” Del asked Lacey the following Tuesday.
Lacey surveyed the array of clothing, jewelry, old dolls, kitchen utensils and other items on the workroom’s table. “I think every family in town must have cleaned house and made a donation.”
He laughed. “We sure got a good response to the request we ran in the Sentinel. This is a lot of work for you, though, and all this doesn’t have to be sorted now. As soon as Silver River Days are over, the ladies who usually do this will be back on the job.”
“I know. But I enjoy it. I at least want to get the mannequins into costumes. They’ll add a lot to the displays.”
He wandered to the table. “What’s this?” He pointed to a box of rocks.
“From the Martin family. The rocks were found on their farm, which is near an old silver mine. Some of them have veins of silver.”
“I see that.” Del picked up a rock and turned it over in his hands. “We can add these to the display on mining.”
“That’s what I thought. I’ll make a card for them.”
“I’d appreciate that, Lacey.” He replaced the rock and looked at his wristwatch. “Just about closing time now, though.”
“I know, but would you mind if I stayed for a while?”
Del frowned and rubbed his chin. “I don’t know... Maybe not such a good idea.”
“Why not? I’m safe here. No one can get in, right?”
“We had a break-in a coupla months ago. The alarm went off, but the thieves got away with a bunch of gold coins before the cops got here.”
“What time did the break-in occur?”
“About 2:00 a.m.”
“I won’t be staying that late. I’ll leave before dark, if that will make you feel any better.”
“Well...okay. I’ll get out of your way, then.”
His steps echoed down the hallway and then faded away.
Lacey picked up the skirt she’d chosen for the ’50s model. She slipped the blue felt over the mannequin’s head and positioned it so that the red hibiscus appliqué was in the front.
A noise, like a door closing, drifted down the stairwell. She raised her head, ears alert. Maybe Del forgot something and had returned. She remained still but heard nothing more. She picked up the red blouse she’d chosen to go with the skirt.
As she slipped the blouse over the model’s head, footsteps sounded in the hallway. She looked up, expecting to see Del, but a woman entered the room. Cora Trenton, carrying a large cardboard box.
“Oh, Mrs. Trenton. I thought you were Del.”
“He said you were working late this evening, so I thought I’d bring over a few more donations. I have my own key. I often drop in after hours to attend to our new wing.”
“Yes, the one honoring your family. Well, this is nice of you.” Lacey took the box from Cora and set it on the table. “I’m sure the museum appreciates your generosity.”
Cora straightened the jacket to her beige pantsuit and secured her tapestry purse over her arm. “I am on the museum board. So in a sense, I am the museum.”
“Yes, of course,” Lacey said, determined to be polite. “Because of you and all the others who so generously give, the Silver River Museum is one of the best around.”
“Is that right? And you’ve seen a lot of museums, I suppose?”
The woman’s challenging tone grated, yet Lacey kept her voice even. “As an historian, yes, I have visited a lot of museums.”
When Cora made no move to leave, Lacey said, “Thanks again for your donation. I’d better get back to work.”
Cora stood her ground. Her gaze cut away from Lacey and landed on the mannequins. “What are you working on?”
“An exhibit from the ’50s. Did you happen to bring any clothing from that decade?” She nodded at Cora’s box.
Cora shook her head. “Not this time. What I brought tonight belonged to Cal. I’ve had a difficult time going through his things since he left us, but now that we have the Trenton wing, I want him represented there.”
Hearing the catch in Cora’s voice, Lacey softened. Cora had lost people she loved, just as she had, and the memories lived on. The circumstances of death didn’t alter the fact that they were loved and missed.
Lacey nodded at the box. “May I take a look?”
“Of course. You’re in charge.”
Lacey doubted Cora believed that but smiled politely. She opened the box and pulled out a manila envelope stuffed with photographs.
“Cal took a lot of pictures,” Cora said. “That bunch includes some of the dam project and wildlife he saw while hiking in the mountains.”
“Wonderful. We have a display on the dam and one of wild animals, too.”
“I know,” she said dryly.
“Of course you do. What was I thinking?” Lacey set the photos aside and reached into the box again. This time she pulled out an army jacket. As she unfolded it, the odor of mothballs floated into the air.
Cora snapped her fingers. “Oh, I forgot I put that jacket in, too. It’s from the ’50s. George wore it in the Korean War. After he passed away, Cal wore it on occasion. He worshiped his father.”
Lacey held up the jacket. “This will be great for the male ’50s model. I’m almost finished with the female.” She gestured to the half-dressed mannequin.
“You’ll make sure the display includes Cal’s name, now, won’t you?”
“Absolutely.” Lacey laid the jacket on the table and pulled the trousers from the box. They, too, reeked of mothballs.
Cora slanted her a glance. “I suppose you’ll be leaving town once the celebration is over.”
Lacey folded the trousers and placed them on top of the jacket. “I’m not sure,” she said, keeping her tone casual.
Cora idly fingered a silk scarf lying on the table. “You have a job in Boise, don’t you? Surely, you don’t want to give that up to move back here.”
“Gram’s been wanting me to come back for a long time. I miss Silver River. I miss it a lot.”
“I can’t imagine you’d ever want to live here again, considering what your father did. And, frankly, the town doesn’t need the kind of churning up you’ve been doing. Bad enough your father’s in our cemetery to remind us. Whenever I go to visit Cal and George, I have to pass your father’s grave.” She put down the scarf, hugged her arms and shuddered.
“I’m sorry that bothers you.”
“Why are you asking so many questions around town about Al Jr.’s murder? You don’t need that kind of information for the Sentinel. No one wants to remember that awful time, or the man who did such a horrible thing.”
Lacey winced. Cora was certainly testing her tonight. But enough was enough.
She looked Cora in the eye. “I don’t believe my father was the one who shot Al Jr.”
Cora narrowed her eyes. “I thought that might be the reason. But that’s ridiculous. He was tried and convicted.”
“Mistakes are made in trials. He wouldn’t be the first man sent to prison for a crime he didn’t commit.”
Cora propped her hands on her hips. “What could possibly make you think your father wasn’t the killer?”
“I have my reasons. But tonight, I’m here to dress the mannequins.” Lacey reached into the box and pulled out a folder containing a coin collection, and a square leather box. She held up the box. “What’s in this?”
Cora’s frown turned into a smile. “Cal’s cuff links and tie clasps. He was quite the dresser. He always wore a suit and tie to his job at City Hall. He planned to run for mayor, you know, like his father. He would’ve won, too,” she added on a wistful note.
“I’m looking for cuff links for the shirt my ’40s model is wearing.”
“I’m sure you’ll find a set of Cal’s that will work. And with a tie clasp to match.”
“I’ll take a look.” Lacey popped the box’s snap and lifted the lid. The container held about a dozen pairs of cuff links and as many tie clasps. Some had stones, some had his initials and some were plain.
“Nice collection,” Lacey said.
“Cal had good taste.”
“I like this one.” Lacey held up a silver cuff link engraved with curlicues.
“Choose whatever you wish.” Cora waved dismissively.
“I need to find the other link.” Lacey poked around in the box.
“It’s in there. Cal was very careful about his things.”
Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Lacey turned toward the door just as Del stepped into the room.
“Hello, ladies.” Del looked from Cora to Lacey. “Got all the way home and realized I forgot the book I’m reading, a new one on the Civil War. Saw your car out front, Cora. Didn’t see you upstairs, so figured you were down here with Lacey. Thought I’d say hello.”
“I brought some donations for the displays.” Cora gestured to the worktable. “Mostly Cal’s things.”
“Isn’t she somethin’, Lacey? She’s done more for this town than anyone I know. She ’n’ George, and Cal, too, rest their souls. We’re lucky to have you, Cora.”
“Yes, we are lucky,” Lacey said with a touch of irony. Then she realized she’d said “we,” as though she were a part of the town, too, and smiled to herself.
“My pleasure.” Cora beamed.
They chatted a few more minutes about the museum displays, and then Cora looked at her wristwatch. “I should be getting back to Wildwood.”
“I’ll walk out with you,” Del said. “I have some questions about tomorrow’s committee meeting.” He turned to Lacey and waggled a finger. “Don’t you stay too late, now, you hear? Your grandma’s probably waitin’ for you to come and play Scrabble.”
“I’ll leave soon,” Lacey promised. “I’ll put these cuff links Cora brought on the model’s shirt, straighten up a bit and then I’ll be done.”
After Del and Cora left, Lacey finished dressing the female mannequin with stockings and high heels. A white pearl necklace and earrings and a red patent leather shoulder bag completed her outfit.
Now, to finish the ’40s male mannequin. She picked up Cal’s leather cuff-link box and, after poking around a bit, spotted the link that matched the one she’d chosen earlier. But when she grasped it between thumb and forefinger, it wouldn’t budge. Then she saw that part of it was stuck underneath the pad in the bottom. She tugged harder and the link popped free. At the same time, the pad came loose, with a force that sent links and tie clasps flying.
Lacey was about to push the pad back into place and retrieve the jewelry from the floor when something gold underneath the pad caught her eye. Another cuff link or a tie clasp? No, too delicate. She pulled the object free and held it up. Amethyst stones in filigree settings glittered in the overhead light. A necklace. Not just any necklace—her mother’s necklace.
Lacey dropped her jaw and stared, unable to believe her eyes. But, yes, the necklace was Norella’s. She’d know it anywhere.
Her thoughts whirled. Had Cal stolen it? Was he Al Jr.’s killer? And what about her mother? Did Cal have anything to do with her death?
She must tell someone, but who? Not Gram. Not yet. Rory? Could she trust him? Of course she could. They may have their differences, but he would never betray her.
She picked up the cuff-link box, intending to replace the pad. Then she saw the corner of a piece of paper. There was more hidden?
She freed the paper, a folded square small enough to be concealed in the bottom of the box. Holding it gingerly between her thumbs and forefingers, she unfolded it. The size of a sheet of notebook paper, one edge was ragged where torn from its source. Small, cramped handwriting covered both sides. One side had a date in the upper right-hand corner.
Lacey gasped.
The note had been written ten years ago, on the day Al Jr. was shot and her father was arrested.
She swallowed hard and began to read...