IN HER OFFICE at the Sentinel, Lacey searched through a box of old photos, looking for pictures to illustrate the commemorative newspaper. The text was shaping up nicely, but needed to be enlivened with more visual content.
Elton came in and peered over her shoulder. “Find anything useful?”
“A few.” She pointed to a stack of pictures she’d set aside. “Right now, I’m looking for some of The Owl Restaurant.”
“Should be some there, as I recall.” He slipped into the empty chair beside her and held out a sheet of paper. “But take a look at this. Clio just finished writing up Police Beat.”
Lacey took the paper and read the weekly list. “I see my tire slashing here. Is that why you’re showing it to me?”
“Just thought you might be interested. Doesn’t actually name you, though.”
“Like everybody in town doesn’t already know it was my car. I don’t know why you bother publishing a newspaper,” she added, only half teasing.
“We get the facts straight. Sometimes the grapevine doesn’t.”
“That’s a point,” she conceded. She turned back to the photos again, and one caught her eye. “Oh, here’s what I’m looking for.” She picked up the picture and held it out to Elton.
Elton adjusted his glasses and peered at the photo. “Yes, this was taken shortly after Jorgen bought the place. Look at that grin on his face.” He pointed to the smiling man standing with feet spread and hands planted on his hips. “He was proud as all get-out.”
“He still is. The place has an interesting history—including the card club Jorgen had in the back room.”
Elton raised his eyebrows. “He told you about that?”
“Well, no. When I was at the museum, Del talked about the games that went on at The Owl.”
Elton nodded. “Probably not a guy in town who didn’t sit in at one time or another.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Even you?”
“Even me. I never had much luck at cards, though.” Elton set the photo on top of the stack.
“How did Jorgen get away with it? Gambling in this state was illegal by then.”
“Paid somebody to look the other way. Happens all the time. There’s always somebody willing to take a bribe if you look hard enough.”
“Del said that one night when my father was there, he accused Al Jr. of cheating. Maybe you were there that night?” She idly straightened the pile of photos and then looked up at him.
Elton met her gaze with a stern one of his own. “Lacey, let it be, will you? Let your poor dad rest in peace.”
“I can’t, Elton.”
“No, not can’t. Won’t. Look, we hired you in good faith to write articles for our celebration, not to dig up old bones. Stop trying to prove your father’s innocence. No one cares.”
“I care.”
Elton frowned and pressed his lips together. “I sure don’t like what I’m hearing around town about the questions you’re asking.”
Lacey’s shoulders tensed. “Do you want me to quit the project?” she asked in a low voice.
“No, especially not at this late date. You’re a darn good writer and a good historian. Your work so far is right on target, and I expect the finished work will be just as good.”
Some of her tension seeped away. “Thanks, Elton. I appreciate the confidence.”
“So, are we straight on everything?”
“Sorry, I can’t make any promises.”
Elton blew out an exasperated breath. “Well, at least you’re honest.” He stood, turned to go and then stopped. “Oh, and just so we don’t need to have this conversation again, at one time or another, your dad accused everyone of cheating—even me.”
* * *
“THEY CAUGHT THE guy who slashed your tires,” Rory said over the phone two days later.
Lacey sat at the round table in her room at Sophie’s, working on her computer. “Caught the guy? Who is he?”
“A teenaged kid from town.”
“How’d they catch him?”
“Long story. Needs to be told in person. Good excuse for getting together, huh?” He laughed.
“Tonight?” She looked at her wristwatch. Nearly seven. She’d had dinner with Gram, as usual, but then, needing to work, had begged off a game of Scrabble and come to her room.
“It’s early yet.”
“Well…okay. I’ll meet you somewhere.”
“Nah. I’ll come pick you up.”
She waited outside the B and B in the gathering dusk, the air still warm, expecting him to arrive in one of his classic cars. Instead, he pulled up in his truck. “Dugan’s is still open,” he said as she climbed in beside him. “It’s a good place to talk.”
At the diner, they sat in the same booth they’d occupied before. Instead of the teenaged waitress, though, an older woman served. She knew Rory, and they exchanged a few remarks as she poured their coffee.
After she left, Rory said to Lacey, “I suppose you’ll worry now about Alma spreading gossip about us.”
Lacey threw up her hands. “No, I’m giving up. I honestly don’t know why Elton Watts bothers to report the news when everyone else does it for him.”
“One of the hazards of small-town living. But okay, down to business. The kid’s name is Alfie Mullen. He’s fourteen years old. Lives with his mother and a couple sibs in the housing development by the fertilizer plant.”
Lacey sipped her coffee. “So how do they know he’s the one?”
“He finally confessed. Maybe I should start at the beginning. He went to Johnson’s Electronics, picked out an expensive game and flashed a wad of money. Told Johnson he got a job but wouldn’t say where.”
Rory sat back and folded his arms. “Johnson told his cop buddy, Dave, who knows the family. Alfie’s been in trouble before at school, stealing a kid’s lunch money. His teachers have been trying to get him into a Big Brothers program, but no luck so far.
“So, Dave talks to Alfie’s mom, who’s worried because Alfie won’t tell her where he got the money. He wanted to give her some, but she refused unless he told her where it came from. Bottom line, they do an intervention with Alfie, and he finally confesses.”
“Confesses what?”
“That somebody paid him to slash your tires.”
Lacey gripped her coffee cup and leaned forward. “Who?”
Rory shrugged. “That’s the big question. He doesn’t know who. A guy he’d never seen before offered him a hundred dollars if he’d slash the tires of a white Camaro convertible, parked at Sophie’s B and B.”
Lacey frowned. “So, what will happen to him?”
“Don’t know. Dave—or someone else from the PD—will contact you.”
Lacey sat back. “Well, mystery solved.”
“Not quite. We still don’t know who hired Alfie. But we might know why.”
“Because he—or she—doesn’t like me stirring up the past.”
“That’d be my guess.”
“So that tells me I’m right about my father’s innocence.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Rory said in a reproving tone. “The person behind the tire vandalism might have a reason that has nothing to do with what your father did.”
Lacey sighed. They were back to the same old argument. “I don’t care what you say, I’ll keep believing my father is innocent.”
Rory folded his arms and heaved a breath. “O-kay, let’s say you’re right. Your father did not shoot my father. Someone else did. And you’re willing to risk your own life to prove that?”
Lacey stared him in the eye. “I guess I am.”
“I know you believe in your father’s innocence,” he said with studied patience, “and I’m willing to concede it’s possible. But we haven’t found any proof. Give up your obsession, so we can move on.”
“I can’t.”
“You keep saying that. But I believe you could if you really wanted to.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I’m trying my best. I wish I could convince you to see my point of view.”
“You might as well stop trying, Rory, because even though I might be discouraged, I’m not giving up.”
* * *
DRIVING ALONG THE highway on Saturday night, lost in thought, Rory was a mile down the road before he realized he’d missed the turnoff. He wheeled around and drove back, looking for the road leading to his grandfather’s house. Yep, there it was, coming up around the bend.
Temptation to bypass the road again nudged him. He didn’t really want to go to A.J.’s party. He’d rather spend the time with Lacey. Since she’d returned to town and they’d been together, the chains of the past that held them prisoner seemed to have slipped away—at least for him. Judging by her response to his kisses, she felt the same way.
Still, although he’d suggested they move forward, she was adamant in her refusal to focus on anything but proving her father’s innocence.
Rory followed the winding road through the pine trees and scrub brush and finally reached A.J.’s house, a sprawling rambler sheltered by maple trees. The thirty acres included a barn, not for horses or livestock, but storage for golf carts and a couple of boats. A nearby shed housed an older-model pickup, a tractor and, last time he’d looked, an old, abandoned Pontiac.
Rory parked next to some other vehicles, climbed from the truck and entered the backyard. This year, A.J.’s Silver River Days party was bigger than ever. At least a hundred guests filled the brick patio and well-tended lawn. In addition to A.J.’s employees, there were also those he did business with—or hoped to.
“Well, Rory! We’ve been waiting for you.” Leetha Parsons, all decked out in a frilly blouse, denim skirt, red boots and cowboy hat, hurried toward him.
Leetha and A.J.’s wife, Beryl, had been best friends. The passing of Beryl and then Leetha’s husband, Edgar, drew her and A.J. together. She made a good hostess when A.J. needed one, and he provided the same for her.
Rory had always liked Leetha. He had good memories of her and Beryl taking him and Leetha’s grandchildren, Bud and Sara, on picnics in City Park and to the movies at the Grand Theater.
“Hey, Leetha, how are you?” Rory opened his arms to receive her hug.
“Can’t complain.” She drew back and looked him up and down. “You’re not in costume. Go grab a hat.” She pointed to a stack of cowboy hats on a nearby table.”
“Okay, if it’ll make you happy.”
She gave a wry grin. “It’ll make A.J. happy.”
Rory grabbed a black Stetson and plopped it on his head.
“See you later, hon. I need to check on the food situation.” Leetha waved him toward the patio and then went into the house.
Rory looked around. A.J. stood at the barbecue pit, looking over the chef’s shoulder. Probably giving him pointers. Nobody knew barbecue better than his grandfather, and why he’d bothered to hire a chef was a mystery.
The aroma of the sizzling ribs filled the air, and Rory’s stomach rumbled. Lunch seemed a long time ago. He grabbed a beer from an ice-filled tub and a handful of chips from a basket on the buffet table.
“Hey, Rory.” Stuart MacKenzie stepped to Rory’s side.
“Evenin’, Stu.”
Stu wore a leather vest over a plaid shirt, a belt with a big silver buckle, cowboy boots and, of course, a Stetson. But then Stuart jumped through all of A.J.’s hoops.
And yet, Rory held no grudge against his grandfather’s loyal employee. He liked Stuart and felt Stuart liked him, too.
“This is Hank Ebberly.” Stu nodded to the man with him. “He’s from Milton.”
“Ah, Ebberly Construction.” Rory shifted his beer so they could shake hands.
“Been lookin’ at property for a subdivision,” Hank said.
“I showed him the Whitfield farm,” Stu said.
“Which we don’t own yet,” Rory reminded him.
“Right. But A.J. says you’re about to close the deal.”
“No date’s been set. In the meantime, what about those fifty acres up on Sagebrush Hill?”
Stu looked at Hank.
Hank shrugged. “No harm in looking. But I sure do like what I saw at the Whitfield farm.”
After Stu and Hank moved on, A.J. caught up with him, clapped him on the back and introduced him to some people he hadn’t met. He sampled the ribs and salads and switched to coffee.
Finally, deciding he’d stayed long enough, he left the party.
On the way to his truck, Rory passed the outbuildings. As his gaze landed on the shed, he thought about the old car stored inside. He glanced over his shoulder. No one was in sight. A quick look wouldn’t hurt.
The shed’s door was unlocked. He turned the handle and went in, leaving the door ajar. The interior was dark and shadowy, but he could make out the object of his visit. The blue paint had faded, rust spots showed here and there and the tires were flat, but the ’61 Dodge Polara still had character and style. He ran his fingers along the fin on the back fender and then stuck his head in the open driver’s-side window. Steering wheel and gearshift looked okay, but what about the engine? Maybe he’d take a quick look…
“Thought you were in a hurry to leave.”
Rory backed out of the car’s window and, without facing his grandfather, said, “Just thought I’d see if you still had this baby.”
When there was no reply, Rory turned and saw the sad look on A.J.’s face. In an instant the look vanished, replaced with a frown directed at Rory.
“Why don’t you let me fix this up for you?” Rory said.
“And give you one more excuse to stay away from the office? I don’t think so.”
“But what good is this car doing sitting here? You could be driving it, enjoying it.”
“Maybe I like it just the way it is.”
“I remember Grandma telling me you gave her this car for her birthday.”
The pained look crossed A.J.’s face again. “I don’t need you to remind me of the car’s history,” he said, his tone gruff. “I need you to stop fooling around with cars and put your efforts into the business.”
Rory folded his arms and shook his head. “You never change, do you?”
A.J. set his jaw. “I see no reason to.”
“And I see no reason to change the way I am. So, I guess we’re stuck, as usual.”
Later, on the way home at last, Rory fumed. More often than not, he and his grandfather were at odds with each other. The Dodge was an old conflict. Something else that rankled was A.J.’s assuming the Whitfield property would be sold to a developer. The more Rory thought about that, the less he liked the idea. At first, he hadn’t cared what happened to the property, only that the house was destroyed. Now, he found himself protective of the entire acreage.
When he reached town, on impulse he bypassed his street and continued on. Once he hit the highway, he watched for the Whitfield place, and when he reached the road, he turned onto it. He bumped along, his car’s headlights cutting a swath of light in the darkness. At the house, he pulled to a stop, got out and gazed up at the derelict structure. He walked around to the back, his feet crunching in the dry grass. He gazed up at the bedroom window, and it dawned on him that that was all it was: a window. Not the window anymore, but a window.
The day he and Lacey had come here together, as painful as that was, had changed him. He still wasn’t sure exactly how, or why, or what it meant, but it had.
It wasn’t until he retraced his way along the highway to home that a plan began to form in his mind.
* * *
“WHERE’S RORY LATELY?” Gram asked a few days later while she and Lacey were enjoying their evening tea on the patio. A brief rainstorm left the air cool and refreshing, and rays from the setting sun glistened on the still-wet grass and the leaves of nearby cottonwood trees.
“Oh, he’s around.” Lacey kept her tone casual.
Gram sipped her tea, studying Lacey over the rim of her teacup. “Maybe so, but not so much around you.”
“I saw him at yesterday’s committee meeting. He gave me a photo to use for the article about the classic car show.”
He hadn’t mentioned helping her anymore, though. But, then, Lacey was at a loss for what to do next, anyway. What she had learned so far indicated her father made a lot of enemies, mainly through gambling. The mean side of him was difficult to accept because, to her, he’d always been kind and loving. And as far as she knew, he’d been kind to her mother, too.
She’d read more of Norella’s journal and found nothing to indicate she feared her husband. If anything, she wanted more attention from him. Lacey believed her mother’s neediness made her vulnerable to the attentions of other men, including Rory’s father. Still, none of that proved anything, one way or the other.
“I always liked Rory,” Gram mused, capturing Lacey’s attention again. “His father was okay, too. But the grandfather, that A.J., bossy as all get-out.” Gram folded her arms and vigorously shook her head. “And I’ll never, so long as I live, sell him the farm for a housing development or whatever. And you’ve got to promise me that after I die, you won’t, either.”
Lacey sighed. “I promise, but I know you’ll be around for a long time yet, so I don’t have to worry about that.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, and then Gram said, “Do you think you and Rory will ever get together again?”
“No. That’s so not going to happen. Ever. Why would you even think such a thing?”
Gram studied her fingernails, a bright pink, freshly painted during a visit to the in-house beauty salon. “Oh, I don’t know. You’ve spent time together this trip. Not like the other times you’ve visited and did not say a word to each other.”
“I know, but we can never regain what we lost, Gram. You, of all people, should understand that. You lost a lot, too.”
Gram folded her hands in her lap and gazed into the distance. “I know. But I’ve been thinking that maybe a person shouldn’t put so much effort into gaining back what’s been lost. Maybe the goal should be moving on and creating something new.”
Moving on. That was what Rory wanted them to do. But was that possible when such an important part of the past—her father’s innocence—was yet to be proven? How could she give up that goal? And yet she had to admit to daydreaming more than once about reconciling with Rory. Fortunately, she always came to her senses before agreeing to something she’d later regret.
But Gram’s mentioning moving on wasn’t something she’d ever said before. She opened her mouth to ask her more about that, but before she could, Gram hugged her arms and said, “Let’s go in now. It’s a bit chilly out here.”
* * *
AT DALTON’S AUTO REPAIR, Rory flipped the sign on the front from Open to Closed. It was five thirty, and John had already gone home. Rory went back to his office to straighten up. Well, sort of. He shut down the computer and stuffed a stack of invoices into a drawer. He’d finish up with those tomorrow.
His gaze strayed to the photos on the wall. His gallery. Growing all the time as he added new cars to his collection. He focused on the ’57 Chevy, his favorite for so many reasons.
He pulled the photo from the wall and sat in his desk chair, looking at the picture, recalling the day he and Lacey had found the car at Stan’s Auto Salvage. He’d talked his dad into having the car towed home, where it sat in the garage. He’d worked on it, bit by bit, piece by piece, learning as he went along. More often than not, his dad would be with him, lending a hand or just providing moral support and father-son companionship.
When the tragedy happened and his grandfather forbade him to see Lacey anymore, he didn’t want to have anything to do with the Chevy, either, because it reminded him so much of her, and of his dad, too, and he missed them both so much. When he moved to A.J’s rambler—his grandmother was still alive then—he’d put the car into the shed with A.J.’s old Dodge. He’d made occasional visits while attending college. After opening his auto shop, he’d brought the car over and picked up where he’d left off in the restoration.
His chest tightened at the thought of ever letting the Chevy go. He needed the car, needed it to help keep the memories alive. He didn’t ever want to forget the happy times with Lacey—and with his father. Whenever he looked at the car or drove it, the past lived again.
Wait. Wasn’t that the same reason Remy Whitfield wanted to keep the farmhouse standing? She needed the house to help keep her memories alive, just as he needed the car.
And he wanted to tear the house down. A sinking feeling hit his stomach. He blew out a breath and sagged back in the chair. What to do… What to do.
He leaned forward again and put his head in his hands. And as he sat there, an idea came to him. A plan that would work for everyone, for him, and for Lacey and Remy. He straightened, turned on the computer again and pulled up his accounts. Savings, a few stocks, a couple of CDs and the balance in his checking account. He tapped the numbers into his calculator. Added an estimation of the amount he figured Stan Levy at the bank would loan him. The bottom line wasn’t as much as he’d hoped. Okay, he could sell some of his cars. But not the ’57 Chevy. Never that one.
He needed something to show Lacey and Remy. He grabbed a piece of paper and made some doodles. He was no artist, though. Not with pencil and paper, anyway. He needed a professional.
Kane Peters, an architect who worked with Dalton Properties, came to mind. He picked up his phone and located Kane’s number. A minute later, he had him on the line.
“Hey, Kane, I got a job for you. No, not for Dalton Properties. For me. I’m going solo on this one.”
* * *
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU…” Lacey joined the chorus. That Gram was seventy-three didn’t seem possible, but she was. Her once lustrous black hair was mostly gray now, and her once strong body frail and confined to a wheelchair; but her blue eyes still had their sparkle and her smile beamed as wide as ever.
The Riverview staff had helped Lacey organize the party. They’d provided the cake and other refreshments and the balloons and streamers hanging from the ceiling.
In addition to Gram’s new friends—including Hal Jacobson—Lacey invited some people from town. Seeing how much her grandmother was loved warmed Lacey’s heart.
In truth, she’d had misgivings about attending the party herself because, like with the Youngs’ barbecue, she risked the whispers and sidelong looks of those who remembered the murder. But when the home’s activity director had approached Lacey with the idea, assuring her birthday celebrations were one of the services they provided for their residents, how could she refuse? She knew Gram would be thrilled to be honored on her birthday by all her friends, both old and new.
When the song was over, everyone clapped and cheered. Gram beamed as she gazed around the room. “Thank you, thank you,” she said when the applause died down. “What a wonderful surprise. One of the best presents is having my granddaughter, Lacey, here with me to celebrate.” She gestured to Lacey, who stood behind her.
Lacey leaned down to give Gram a hug. “I’m glad I could be here, too.”
After they’d finished their cake and ice cream, Lacey picked up Gram’s empty coffee cup. “I’ll get you a refill.”
“I can do that,” Hal said.
Lacey shook her head. “No, Hal, I’ve got it. I’ll get some for you, too.” Before he could protest, she snatched up his cup and hurried toward the coffee cart. She smiled to herself. Hal had hardly left Gram’s side all evening.
While Lacey filled one of the cups, Eleanor Higby, from her grandmother’s bridge club, stepped to the cart.
“Lovely you could be here for your grandmother’s birthday.” Eleanor said.
Lacey set the filled cup aside and held the other one under the urn’s spigot. “I’m glad the timing worked out.”
Eleanor pursed her lips and shook her head. “Too bad your father’s crime chased you away. Living with that all these years must be tough.”
Lacey’s stomach clenched, and she was about to mumble something and hurry away. Instead, she took a deep breath, lifted her chin and looked Eleanor in the eye. “It’s true. I did leave town because of my father’s alleged crime. But my circumstances have changed now, and…and I just might come back to Silver River.”
“Why, that would be wonderful. I’d love to see you around town again. And I’m sure your grandmother would be thrilled.” Her eyes twinkled. “But a certain old flame wouldn’t have anything to do with your decision, would he?”
Lacey had to smile at “old flame.”
“I have been renewing some friendships on this trip, but if I do move back, it will be just for me.”
“I hope it works out for you, dear.”
“Why, thanks, Eleanor. I appreciate your support.”
Lacey returned to Gram and Hal, pleased with her and Eleanor’s exchange. Voicing her belief in her father’s innocence did not intimidate her anymore. She had more confidence now.
Then it dawned on her that she’d also told Eleanor she might return to Silver River. Where had that come from? Was she honestly considering coming home to stay?