THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Lacey phoned Ed Norton, her boss at the Boise Historical Society.
“I know more time off is a big favor to ask,” she said when he came on the line, “but my grandmother’s move is more complicated than we’d at first thought.”
True enough. She still had to arrange for the disposal of Gram’s leftover apartment furniture and finish sorting through the boxes.
“I’m sorry, Lacey,” Ed said. “I’ve already granted you more time off than your contract allows. Maybe you can get someone there to help your grandmother?”
“No, it’s personal stuff—you understand.”
“I understand, but I can’t grant you more time.”
“Then I—” Lacey gripped the phone, indecision waging a war inside her. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again she saw the copse of trees where the farmhouse stood. “I won’t be back at all.”
Silence. And then Ed said, “I see. Well. We’ll be sorry to lose you, Lacey.”
“Me, too, Ed.”
Lacey’s hands shook as she ended the call. Had she really just quit the job she loved so much and worked so hard to obtain? Thrown her promising future away for a few more weeks here in Silver River chasing a dream that might turn into a nightmare?
* * *
“HERE’S YOUR OFFICE.” Elton Watts led Lacey into a room at the Sentinel and then stopped and studied her. “What? I know it’s probably not as big and fancy as your office in Boise, but won’t it do?”
Lacey surveyed the dimly lighted room with a scarred desk and dented filing cabinets and thought of her office at the historical society, where the furniture was new and modern and large windows overlooked the city park. But, then, that wasn’t her office anymore.
“This is fine, Elton,” she assured him in a strained voice. “I’ll be out and about most of the time, anyway.”
“True enough. Okay, then.” He pointed to a microfiche reader. “We have every back issue of the Sentinel. Sara Hoskins’s work is on the computer, and there’s also a printout. And here’s a list of the articles to publicize the celebration’s featured events.” He picked up a sheet of paper lying next to the computer. “Sit and we’ll go over this.”
Lacey sat and opened her tablet, ready to take notes.
Elton pulled up a chair next to her. “There’s a pie contest. Hester Hartley’s in charge. And there’s a special exhibit at the museum. See Del Ford about that. He’s the curator.”
Elton put down the list and sat back. “Speaking of the museum, we’ll need an article about the new wing Cora Trenton’s providing in memory of her husband, George, and her son, Cal. George was mayor a while back. You probably remember him. And Cal passed away a few years ago from a brain tumor.”
“Uh-huh.” Lacey’s fingers flew over the keyboard as she attempted to keep up with Elton’s chatter.
“The flower show is Claire Roche’s baby. You might remember her, too. Her folks own Nellon’s Hardware.”
Yes, the person Gram thought might have put the pansies on the graves at the cemetery. Lacey definitely wanted to talk to Claire.
“She and Clint live on Lewis Avenue. Be sure to take a look at her garden. It’s something.”
“I’ll do that.” Especially to look for pansies.
Elton picked up the list again and adjusted his glasses. “The downtown business association is sponsoring a raffle aimed to get people into the stores during the celebration. Millie Nixon, at Millie’s Boutique, is in charge of that.”
“I can talk to Kris, too, since she works for her aunt.”
“And of course we can’t forget the classic car show. That’s Rory Dalton’s project.” He frowned. “That won’t be a problem, will it?”
Lacey’s stomach tensed. The last thing she wanted was more interaction with Rory. She forced a smile. “Not as far as I’m concerned. If interviewing Rory is part of the job, then of course I’ll talk to him.”
Elton’s frown faded. “See, you’re a professional. That’s one reason I wanted you for the job.” He sat back and studied her. “I’m curious, though, about why you accepted my offer when you were so against it at first.”
“I, ah, well, it will give me more time with Gram.” True enough.
“Your boss was okay with giving you more time off?”
Lacey looked down at her tablet. “We worked out an arrangement.” That was true, too, even if the “arrangement” meant quitting her job.
“Good, good. I was afraid you wouldn’t want to be involved with the project because interviewing people who knew your folks might be a problem.”
“I won’t let that bother me,” she said in a decisive tone.
Elton beamed. “See? Like I said, you’re a professional.”
* * *
“YOU’RE STAYING IN town to do a special job for Elton Watts?” Gram gave Lacey a puzzled look as she set her teacup in its saucer.
They were having tea in the activity room, elegantly furnished with picture windows and double doors opening onto a sun-filled courtyard. Several residents worked on a jigsaw puzzle, while across the room, a woman played classical music on a baby grand piano.
Lacey plucked off the teapot’s crocheted cozy, releasing the aroma of Earl Grey, and then refilled Gram’s cup. “Yes, I’ll be here for a few extra weeks.”
“So that’s why Elton called you. But what about your job in Boise? Did your boss give you more time off?”
Keeping her gaze focused on her task, Lacey added tea to her own cup. “We, ah, came to an agreement.”
“Did you quit your job? Or get fired?”
“A little of both.” Lacey replaced the cozy back on the pot. “But aren’t you glad I’m going to stay longer?”
“Of course. But I didn’t expect you to lose your job. This doesn’t have anything to do with Norella’s missing necklace, does it?” Gram narrowed her eyes.
“It might.”
Gram shook her head. “You’ve ruined your career to chase after the silly notion that the necklace had something to do with Al Jr.’s murder and that finding it will somehow prove Rick’s innocence.”
Lacey tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair. “I guess that’s it in a nutshell, as they say.”
“I should have burned that journal,” Gram said.
THE MINUTE LACEY rounded the corner of High Street and Lewis Avenue, she spotted Claire Roche’s garden. Enclosed by a white picket fence, it filled the entire backyard of the modest two-story home.
Lacey parked at the curb, but instead of getting out, she remained behind the wheel. On her job in Boise, she’d conducted countless interviews. She loved talking to people, gathering information to use in a report or one of the society’s publications.
But today, Lacey also had a personal motive for visiting Claire Roche, and that put her on edge.
Finally, she gathered up her purse, took a deep breath and stepped from the car.
Peering over the fence, she glimpsed a woman on her knees digging in one of the flower beds. “Mrs. Roche?” Lacey called.
The woman stopped digging and looked up from under the brim of her yellow straw hat.
“I’m Lacey Morgan. We spoke on the phone this morning.”
“Yes, I’ve been waiting for you.” Claire Roche put down her trowel, stood and approached the gate.
In her fifties and not more than five feet tall, Claire’s slight body was all but lost in baggy jeans and a short-sleeved, cotton print blouse. She wore little makeup, which brought into prominence her large and soulful brown eyes.
“Come in.” Claire unlatched the gate and held it open.
Lacey followed her into the yard, breathing in the variety of fragrances in the air. “I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice.”
“No problem. I need a break about now, anyway.”
Claire led them along a stone path through beds of roses, impatiens, dahlias and geraniums. Figurines of fairies and dwarves tucked among the blossoms gave the garden a fanciful air.
She watched for pansies but didn’t see any. Perhaps Gram was wrong about Claire being the person who had put pansies on the graves.
Claire motioned to several lawn chairs under a maple tree. “This is a good place to talk.”
Lacey sat and took out her tablet and tape recorder. Claire removed her gloves and hat and laid them in her lap. She ran her fingers through her short gray curls.
They chatted about Sara Hoskins’s husband’s heart surgery and Remy’s broken hip and her move to Riverview. Claire’s friendly manner put Lacey at ease.
After a while, Lacey directed the conversation to the upcoming flower show. “The show’s at the town hall, correct?”
Claire nodded and then said in a wistful tone, “I wish we had the convention center that A. J. Dalton wants to build. That would give us ever so much more space.”
At the mention of Rory’s grandfather, Lacey stiffened. “I hadn’t heard about that. Where does he plan to build it?” Was that why he and Rory wanted Gram’s property?
Claire shrugged. “I’m not sure. But he’s done so much for this town. Where would Silver River be without him?”
Lacey gritted her teeth to keep from answering that question. Instead, she said, “Why can’t you have your show at the county fairgrounds?”
Claire shook her head. “Too far away. We want everything connected with the celebration to be here in town. That’s what Silver River Days are all about. Our town.”
At last, Lacey sat back and turned off her tape recorder. “You’ve answered all my questions for the article, so I’ll let you get back to your gardening.”
“It does keep me busy.” Claire put on her hat and picked up her gloves.
On the way back to the gate, Claire again leading the way, Lacey took a last look around for pansies. She was about to give up when she spied their purple, blue and red blossoms tucked away in a bed near the house.
“What lovely pansies,” she said.
Claire paused to look at the flowers. “Yes, they are. Such delicate little blossoms.”
“I saw some just the other day,” Lacey said as they continued walking.
Claire shrugged. “Not surprising. Lots of people grow pansies.”
Lacey took a deep breath. “The ones I saw were at Restlawn. I took some flowers to my family’s graves. Someone had put pansies on all three, my grandfather’s, my mother’s...and my father’s.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, and I’d like to know who that person is.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because...because I’d like to thank them.”
They reached the gate. Claire put her hand on the latch. She turned to Lacey, her mouth set in a tight line. “Maybe they don’t want to be thanked. Maybe they want to remain anonymous. Maybe the person puts flowers on lots of graves, even the grave of a murderer.”
“My father was innocent.” The words tumbled from Lacey’s mouth. “I know he was.”
Claire scowled. “Doesn’t matter what you think. He had a trial, and according to the jury, he was guilty. Justice was served.”
* * *
LACEY DROVE AWAY from Claire Roche’s house wondering about the woman’s sudden change from friendly and open to angry and defensive. While she hadn’t actually admitted to being the one who’d left the pansies, Lacey would bet she knew who did. But perhaps, as Claire insisted, the gesture meant nothing special.
Still, Lacey wanted to know the person’s identity.
Now, though, she needed to turn her attention back to the task at hand. Her next interview was with Helen Jacobs, owner of Jacobs Gallery, who was coordinating the festival’s art walk.
At the gallery, Lacey spent a pleasant half hour with Helen discussing her event. She had moved to town only a few years ago, and if she knew Lacey’s history, she didn’t mention it.
Afterward, Lacey stood on the sidewalk debating what to do next. She had time for one more appointment today. Maybe she should get Rory’s interview over with. Should she call first and see if he had time to talk to her? Or drop in unannounced? She decided on the latter. If he were too busy to talk, then she’d set up an appointment.
As Lacey drove up the hill to Dalton’s Auto Repair, she wondered how Rory had managed to hang on to his business location. As Claire Roche had said, A. J. Dalton never let a prime piece of property go undeveloped. Some of the townspeople agreed with him, while others thought Silver River should remain a quiet rural community.
Lacey wasn’t sure what she thought. Since she didn’t live here anymore, her opinion didn’t matter, anyway.
She pulled up in front of the garage. All three bays were occupied. In one, a late-model Chevrolet sat on the hoist; in the second, a red sports car; and in the third, an older-model Honda.
Rory was bent over the Honda’s open hood.
Lacey suddenly had another attack of nerves, although quite different from what she’d experienced at Claire Roche’s. She couldn’t do this, after all. She’d go back to the newspaper and tell Elton he’d have to find someone else for the job.
No, she had to do this. Pretend he’s just another person to interview.
Yeah, right.
She cut the engine, took a deep breath and climbed from the car.
Rory stepped out of the garage. He wore jeans and a tight-fitting blue T-shirt, which showed off his muscular arms.
“Can I help—” He stopped and stared. “Lacey? What are you doing here? Car trouble?” His gaze traveled over her shoulder to her car.
“No, my car’s running fine. I’m here about Silver River Days.”
He propped his hands on his hips. “What do you have to do with that?”
“Elton Watts hired me to finish the newspaper’s special edition and write articles for the regular edition. You’re on my list for the Classic Car Show.”
“Ah, so that’s why you were at his office yesterday.”
“You saw me?”
“I was waiting for the light to change when you and he came out.”
“If you’d rather talk to someone else—”
He waved a hand. “No, no. Your coming here is just so...unexpected.”
“I should’ve called. I’ll come back some other time.” She turned to go.
“Now’s fine. John’s on an errand, but I have time to talk. Come on in my office.” He nodded toward an open doorway inside the garage.
She followed him into a room with a counter and a cash register, a couple vending machines, a cart with a coffeepot and cups, and a row of chairs. From there, another door led to his office, which was little more than a cubbyhole. He waved her into the one extra chair and then sat behind a scarred wooden desk. He pulled a file folder from a desk drawer, shuffled through it and took out a sheet of paper.
“Here’s the map I made.” He cleared a spot on the desk and laid the paper between them. “Elton can publish this along with your article. We assemble at Fifth and Main.”
She leaned over the desk at the same time he did, and their heads were inches apart. Her heart started to pound. “Ah, how many cars do you expect to participate?”
“At least fifty.”
He sat back, putting some distance between them, but still dangerously near.
She licked her dry lips and swallowed. “I’d better make some notes.” She pulled her tablet from her purse. “Okay, go on.”
“Where was I?” He laughed.
“Ah, people. Participants.”
“Oh, right. We have entrants from all over the state, as well as Washington and Montana. There aren’t that many shows around, and there’s nothing a classic car owner likes more than to show off his car.”
Lacey tapped her tablet’s keys. “So, it’s free?”
“No, there’s an admission fee. Proceeds go to the summer sports camp for kids. Prizes, too, for People’s Choice, Best Antique, Best Custom and Best in Show.”
A bell tinkled and a door slammed. Rory looked over Lacey’s shoulder to the outer room. “Carl Schroeder, picking up his car. Back in a sec. Here, you can look through this stuff.” He slid the file in her direction.
Lacey flipped through the file, making notes on her tablet as she went along. Once, she glanced into the outer office to see Rory punching his computer’s keys while Carl stood nearby.
Carl had been a carpenter friend of her father’s. But when Rick was arrested for Al Dalton’s murder, Carl joined the other townsfolk who believed him guilty.
Carl’s wandering gaze landed on Lacey. He widened his eyes and stared. Oh, great. Soon it would be all over town that Lacey Morgan was in Rory Dalton’s cozy garage office. Lacey sighed. She’d been crazy to take this job.
Rory and Carl left the office and went into the garage. Lacey returned to reading through the file, recording more of the information. The men’s voices, along with the sound of a car’s revving engine, drifted in from the garage.
Lacey closed the file folder. Restless, she stood and stretched. She could leave. She had all the pertinent information. Her gaze idly scanned the office, landing on a file cabinet with papers sticking out of the drawers and a cactus plant in an orange pot sitting on the top. A worktable held a paper cutter and a pile of wrenches.
Her attention moved to the wall. A calendar featured a Ford from the ’70s, and several framed photos showed Rory—and sometimes other people, too—posing with various cars. A ’50s Hudson, a ’40s Ford, and a ’57 Chevy that looked familiar.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Rory said from behind her. “Carl likes to talk.”
Lacey turned. “And I’m sure he will—all over town.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Will that upset you?”
She shrugged. “I’d think it would upset you.”
“I’m used to small-town gossip. I don’t let it bother me—anymore,” he added, looking away. Then his attention moved to the photos. “What do you think of my gallery?”
“Very impressive. You’ve restored all these?”
“Yep. Starting with the ’57 Ford.” He pointed to the photo. “You should remember that one. You were with me when I bought it.” He added in a low voice, “A couple weeks before the prom.”
That was why the car looked familiar. Memories washed over her. The excitement of their upcoming graduation, and of the prom, and of their future together. All wiped out with a shot fired from her father’s rifle.
Feeling suddenly sick to her stomach, she turned away from the photos.
“Lacey—”
She met his gaze, and something seemed to pass between them. Her heart beat faster. “I—I’d better be on my way. I have more stops to make.”
“Yeah. Sure. Did you get what you need from the file?” He gestured to the desk.
She nodded. “I would like a copy of the flyer, though.”
Rory picked up the flyer and stuck it in the copy machine. While the machine hummed and the copy printed, neither spoke. When he held out the paper, she plucked it from his hand with her thumb and forefinger.
Rory led her from the office and out to her car, where he opened the door and held it while she slid onto the seat. Once the door was shut between them, she took a relieved breath. Soon, there would be even more distance between them, and then maybe she could start breathing normally again.
She looked up at him. “Thanks for the information.”
“No problem. But I gotta say one more thing. I never meant to upset your grandmother the other day...”
“I don’t want any more discussion about that—even if I had the time. Which I don’t.” She stuck the key in the ignition.
He backed away. “All right. I hear you.”
She turned the key, expecting to hear the sound of the engine firing.
Instead, she heard only a dull click.