Heather slowed as a Mattherson school bus turned off the state highway and proceeded down a county lane. Unlike the two previous trips to the sleepy town, conversation flowed on the way. Steve presented each piece of evidence for examination and evaluation. They debated motives of suspects for Amanda’s killing. Steve assigned a numerical rating on his unscientific scale that ranged from least to most likely. He mentioned the remaining pieces of information needed to bring the investigation to an end. Once they tied up these half-dozen loose ends, they’d know Amanda’s killer. Knowing, and being able to prove, who committed the older murder would be more difficult. It would take equal parts skill and luck to unravel the eighty-year-old cold case of Rodney Wells.
They passed by the Dairy Queen where Steve had used well-intentioned deception to keep Brian and Amanda’s clandestine rendezvous from Amanda’s mother. Heather wondered if the brilliant young woman would still be alive if Mindi Palmer had discovered the truth and reported it to her overprotective husband. She remembered how protective and proud he was of their only child and could only imagine how devastated he must be.
One thing was for certain. If any member of the Mattherson family had a role in Amanda’s death, the feud would rekindle with greater intensity.
Thoughts of what could have happened occupied Heather’s mind until she turned onto the road that offered a street-view of the three mansions. She slowed. “All quiet at the Palmer’s home, except for a church van parked in front.”
Steve issued a single nod. “That will be a bereavement committee from a church making a delivery of meals.” Steve sat a little straighter. “Those are some of the sweetest people you’ll ever meet, and sometimes the nosiest. If you like casseroles, they’re the experts.”
“Why do you say they’re the nosiest?”
“Not all of them, but there’s always those who want to know the details of the death. They tend to probe for the inside scoop.”
“You sound like an expert on the inner workings of bereavement committees.”
“Maggie served on the one at our church. With me working such long hours, she kept me informed.”
Steve’s voice had dipped to something that reminded Heather of a dirge, so she brightened hers. “We’re here. I’ll drive around to the covered parking. This place is beginning to feel like a home away from home.”
Pulling into the carport, Heather spied a familiar figure coming toward them. “Traci’s here to greet us.”
“Good. I hoped we could talk to her away from her parents. This may be our chance to scratch two items off our list.”
A fretful voice greeted them. “Welcome back. Please tell me you’ve made progress on clearing Brian.”
Steve met her at the front of the vehicle. “We know a lot more than we did the last time we were here, but there are still questions that need answers. Are your parents home?”
“Mrs. Palmer called Mom to help put up food. It seems all the churches got together and set up a schedule to deliver food. There’s a new shipment every day and Mom’s been bringing home most of it. You don’t need to go out to eat while you’re here unless you don’t like casseroles.”
Steve asked, “There’s only two people at the Palmers to eat it all, and I bet they aren’t interested in food. What are you doing with the rest?”
“We packed our freezers, and I’ve been putting everything else in Ziplock bags and giving it away to people who live in the country. News of free food travels fast among those who don’t have much.”
“We’ll take our bags upstairs and then have a talk if you have time.”
“Dad’s at the Mattherson’s. Something about a water leak. All I have to do is catch incoming calls. I’ll help you get settled.”
The three moved to the rear of the SUV. Heather passed out suitcases to carry. “Does the landline transfer calls to your cell phone?”
“Sure does.”
“Good,” said Steve. “It’s a perfect day. Let’s get something to drink and talk by the pool.”
Traci hesitated, glancing at the top of the house next door. “All right. I baked cookies for you.”
After a brief interlude, Heather, Steve, and Traci gathered by the pool. A lone Bradford pear tree and fluffy clouds provided partial shade.
Traci set her glass of water on the side table that separated her from Steve. “I don’t know if I can stand this much longer. Will you be able to prove that Brian didn’t kill Amanda?”
Steve turned his face a little toward Traci. “Let me ask you a question. Does Brian enjoy fresh-baked Tollhouse cookies?”
“He loves them, but what’s that got to do with what I asked?”
“Be sure to keep all the ingredients on hand. You never know who might make an unexpected appearance.”
Traci breathed a sigh of relief. “I knew you’d do it. I just knew it.”
A serious tone filled Steve’s next words. “Heather needs to ask you some questions. We hope you’ll answer them.”
Heather pointed to the upper story of the house next door. “I noticed both you and Babbs frequently look at the top floor of the Mattherson’s home. I’ve also noted the unease on your faces, perhaps even fear. Did something bad happen to you there?”
Traci shook her head. “I’ve been in the home many times, but never beyond the first floor.”
Heather recognized the defensiveness in Traci’s voice, but pressed on. “I believe you about that, but there’s something about the top floor of that home that upsets you.”
Traci looked straight ahead. Then, her eyes shifted upward to the house next door. “There’s a telescope in an empty room on the third floor. They use it to spy on us.” Traci’s gaze bore into Heather. “Do you know what it’s like to live thinking someone’s looking at you all the time?”
It took little imagination for Heather to visualize Ryan or his father focusing on family and guests, especially women at the pool.
Steve brought the next question. “You said ‘they’ use it to spy. All of them?”
“All but Brian. He told me his mother watches us like a hawk, looking for something to criticize. It’s good that trees block their view of all the bedrooms but mine. Of course, the two perverts focus on the pool.”
Heather meant to ask another question, but Steve spoke before she could. “I knew there had to be a simple explanation.”
Without taking a breath, Steve asked, “Did you have any luck finding a copy of the yearbook?”
“Sorry. I looked in the library, the high school, I posted on social media, and put an ad in the local newspaper. If one exists, I can’t find it.”
“Thanks for looking. For that much effort, you earned the $200.”
“No, I didn’t. You asked me to do one simple thing and I couldn’t pull it off.”
“In investigating murders, the clues come with what you find and what you don’t find. Someone went to a great deal of trouble to bury the past. That’s important.”
Heather reached in her purse, pulled out two crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, and handed them to Traci. She received them with a word of sincere thanks, glanced at the third floor of the house next door and beat a path to the back door.
“What now?” asked Heather.
“It’s too early for supper. Let’s go to the public library.”
Heather stayed seated. “Traci already looked there for the yearbook. Is there something else you’re trying to find?”
Steve unfurled his cane. “It’s what we don’t find that interests me.”
The brief trip to the library went without incident, other than Heather slamming on her brakes to avoid flattening one of Babbs’s cats. The tiger-striped juvenile left with nothing harmed but its nerves.
Once Heather explained the reason for the hard braking, Steve powered down his window. “That’s one, kitty. You have eight lives left.”
Because of the diminutive size of the town and its proximity to the three mansions, they soon arrived at the library. A statue of a man dressed in nineteenth century formal wear stood in front of the library, square in the path to the front door. The bronze image held three books under his arm and looked straight ahead, as if staring at the future. The concrete sidewalk divided around the statue and joined again on the other side of the edifice. Heather walked slowly and described the statue and the modest library. She then stopped and read aloud the brass plaque. “CLOVIS MATTHERSON Founder of Mattherson and Mattherson County. Frontiersman, Hero of the Texas Revolution, Civic and Spiritual Leader.”
Steve gave a harrumph. “From what I’ve learned of old Clovis, he took his spirits out of a bottle. I remember nothing about spiritual or moral leadership.”
Heather walked around the statue with Steve’s hand on her arm. “Revisionist history. It’s alive and well today.”
Steve stopped. “That’s a good point. Does it say when they placed the statue?”
“Let me look.” Heather went back to the front of the statue. “Fifteen years ago. The Friends of the Library, Belinda Mattherson, President placed it.”
Steve responded with only a nod of his head.
Once inside, Heather led them to the circulation desk. A woman with brown, wavy hair that cascaded down her back greeted them.
“Do you have a section on local history?” asked Heather.
“We certainly do. Everything you want to know is in the Mattherson Room at the rear.” She used her hand to point to the right, reminding Heather of a flight attendant giving safety instructions.
Once in the room and the door closed behind them, Heather asked, “Is there anything in particular you want me to look for?”
“Spend the next hour or two going around the room. Whatever catches your eye, give me a brief description and move on. If you see anything pertaining to the three families, tell me what it is.”
It seemed a strange request, but Steve wasn’t averse to breaking convention in investigations.
An hour and forty-five minutes later, Steve issued a yawn. “That’s enough. I get the picture.”
“I’m glad you do.”
“Give me your overall impression of what’s gathered here.”
Heather considered the question. “I found nothing that interested me.”
“Nothing?”
“I thought I’d get a better feel for the town and county, but something’s missing.”
“Do you mean missing or incomplete?”
Heather snapped her fingers. “That’s it. Missing and incomplete. Only positive stories are here.”
“I thought the same thing. Did you notice the lack of material about the Palmer family?”
“Or the Wells’s contribution to oil production.” Heather looked around the room. “It’s a shrine to the Mattherson family.”
Steve stood and stretched. “This room has Belinda Mattherson’s fingerprints all over it. Let’s find the librarian. I have a question or two for her.”
The woman that had directed them to the Mattherson Room pushed a cart of books down the aisle in front of them. Heather whispered to Steve. “Library worker straight ahead.”
“Did you find what you were looking for?” asked the woman with waist-length hair.
“Only partially,” said Steve. “We’re staying at the Wells Mansion and were led to believe that three families are responsible for the early growth of Mattherson. Is that correct?”
“You must mean the boom years when old Mr. Wells came here and drilled oil. Mr. Palmer wasn’t far behind and spearheaded the establishment of a railroad. It was only a spur line, but it put Mattherson on the map.”
“We found plenty of information on the Matthersons and a few mentions of Mr. Wells’s contribution to oil, but nothing on the Palmers. Why is that?”
The woman broke eye contact. “I can’t say.”
Steve took a tiny step forward and lowered his voice. “That’s an answer that can mean two things. Either you don’t know, or you do know, but are unwilling to speak. I believe it’s the latter. Then, I ask myself why?”
He let the question dangle in the air until the woman broke the silence. “Look, sir, I don’t know who—”
Steve didn’t allow her to finish. “I think you know more than you’re pretending to know. My name is Steve Smiley, and this is Heather McBlythe. Heather came here to buy land for a high-speed train, but that’s all on hold for now. You knew about that, didn’t you?”
“Please, Mr. Smiley. I don’t want to lose my job.”
“That’s the last thing we want to happen to you. This is a small town controlled by two families and you have the misfortune of having to answer to one of them. Right?”
The woman’s head dipped and came back up.
“Since this is such a small town and you work with the public, you can’t help but keep up to date with all that goes on. That tells me you already know that Heather and I are private detectives hired to find Amanda Palmer’s killer.”
He kept talking at an even pace. “We already have enough evidence to make the police question if they arrested the right person. We came here looking for answers, and we found some, but not enough.”
Heather took over. “It boils down to this: you can push your cart back to the Mattherson Room where we’ll be waiting for you, or you can expect a visit from an unpleasant homicide detective from Houston.”
The woman looked with pleading eyes. “I can’t be in the room with you for long. Please.”
Steve whispered, “We understand.” He turned, letting his cane guide him back to the room.
In less than a minute, a squeaky wheel on the book cart announced the woman’s arrival. Heather wondered what questions Steve would ask, and why he was so intent on speaking with the library worker. She didn’t have long to wait.
Without a prelude or any attempt to put the woman at ease, Steve hit her with his first question. “When did Belinda Mattherson cull the resources in this room?”
The question caused the librarian’s eyes to open wide. “How did you know?”
“Like I already told one person today, look for things that are supposed to be here, but aren’t. The Matthersons may have founded the town, but oil and banking brought it to life. Belinda’s name is on the plaque outside and she’s done her best to make sure her family name remains prominent. In her mind, Craig and Mindi Palmer pose a threat to her.”
Steve took a long breath. “It’s important for us to know when Belinda went through this room and discarded all the materials that portrayed the Palmers in a positive light. That includes Amanda.”
The librarian clutched her blouse, close to her heart. “Do you think Belinda had something to do with Amanda’s murder?”
Neither Steve nor Heather answered the question. After a few seconds, Steve repeated the abbreviated version of his prior question. “When did she take the materials from this room?”
“Last fall. I’ve never seen her act like that. At first, I thought she was kidding. She wasn’t. It took her two days to go through everything.”
“Including a high school yearbook from 1940?”
“I pleaded with her not to take it. My relatives are in that book. I tried to find copies, but I heard she located every last one known to exist and burned them.”
“Thanks,” said Steve. “Heather and I will be going. You’ve been most helpful and you needn’t worry about us telling anyone.”
Once outside, Heather didn’t speak until she led Steve around the statue. “Are you ready to wrap this case up and put a bow on it?”
“One more interview.”