Silver River Secrets Page 8

  She switched on the radio to find another reminder—Rory’s favorite country station. They always listened to it while driving home from school, singing along.

  Now she was stuck driving this car for the next several days. Well, then, drive it she would. Lacey straightened her shoulders and gripped the wheel.

  She’d made good progress with her interviews today, and even though she hadn’t discovered anything new about Al Jr.’s murder, she was confident she eventually would.

  The truth was out there. She had only to find it.

  *

  AFTER LACEY LEFT, Rory climbed into his truck and drove back to the shop. As he pulled into his parking spot behind the building, he saw Lacey’s Camaro, which John had moved from the driveway. He had to admit he and Lacey had worked well together figuring out the problem, just like back in the high school auto repair class. He especially remembered an old Dodge with a broken steering wheel. When they’d fixed that, they’d grinned at each other, high-fived and then, in front of Mr. Callahan and all their classmates, he’d kissed her. Their first kiss. Everyone had cheered.

  That was the beginning.

  A rifle shot from a farmhouse window was the end.

  Footsteps sounded on the gravel. Someone tapped his window. “Earth to Rory.”

  He looked around to find Sam peering at him.

  Pulling the key from the ignition, Rory opened the door and stepped out.

  “You okay?” Sam asked.

  “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I don’t know, maybe because Lacey’s car is here. What’s going on?”

  Rory explained the situation as he pocketed his keys and headed around to the garage’s front entrance. Sam fell into step beside him.

  “So, what was it like?”

  Rory skidded to a halt and faced Sam. “What was what like?”

  Sam waved a hand. “Talking to her again. You two haven’t spoken much in ten years. Well, except for the party the other night.”

  “We talked business. About the car show. And then about her car’s problem.” He resumed walking, turned the corner and stepped from the sunlight into the cooler interior of the garage. In the office, John stood at the computer. He looked up and nodded a greeting.

  “Something’s going on,” Sam persisted. “For ten years she pops in and out of town for no more than a few days, and now she’s taken a job here. Why?”

  Rory shrugged. “If she has some ulterior motive, it has nothing to do with her and me. What brings you here, by the way? Run out of crooks to defend?”

  Sam snorted. “I’ll ignore that because I know you really hold my profession in high regard. No, I was on my way back from a meeting in Milton. Stopped to see when I can bring in the Mustang again. Want to make sure it’s ready for the show.”

  “How ’bout tomorrow night? I got nothing going.”

  “Me, neither. See you at about six?”

  “You’re on.”

  Sam left, and Rory headed into the office to talk to John.

  Later, he thought about Sam’s suspicion that Lacey had an ulterior motive for taking the job with the newspaper. If she did, what could it be? Did it have something to do with him? With them? No, there was no “them.” What, then? Okay, if Sam was on target, he figured he’d find out sooner or later. Nothing stayed a secret for long in this town.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  LACEY TAPPED ON the door to Gram’s apartment, turned the knob and stepped inside. “It’s me, Gram.”

  Gram sat by the patio door talking on the phone. She looked up and met Lacey’s gaze, fluttering the fingers of her free hand.

  “Here’s Lacey now,” Gram said into the phone. “I’ll find out and call you back.” She punched off the call and laid the phone in her lap. Grasping the wheels of her chair, she turned to face Lacey. A puzzled frown creased her brow.

  Lacey set her purse on the table. “Find out what?”

  “Why you were riding through town with Rory Dalton.”

  Lacey shook her head. “This town’s grapevine rivals the internet.”

  “Maybe. But you didn’t answer my question.”

  Lacey held up the keys to the loaner car. “This is the reason. After I make tea, I’ll tell you all about it.”

  A few minutes later, Lacey brought their cups of tea into the living room and pulled up a chair by Gram. As she related the afternoon’s events, her grandmother’s expression ran the gamut from raised eyebrows to the hint of a smile and then back to a puzzled frown.

  “I thought you knew how to fix cars,” Gram said, “from that class you took in high school. When my car battery died in the parking lot at the grocery store and you hooked up your battery to mine, I thought you were pretty smart. Do you remember that time?”

  Lacey smiled. “I do. I thought I was smart, too. But the problem my car has now is a lot different than a dead battery. I don’t have the tools or the part to fix it.”

  “Does this mean you and Rory are getting back together?”

  Lacey choked on a swallow of tea. “Of course not. Why would you think that?”

  Gram turned toward the patio, where sunlight streamed in through the glass. “I’m just asking. I always liked Rory. So polite and helpful.”

  Lacey laughed. “The kind of guy who helps old ladies across the street.”

  Gram nodded. “I never had a quarrel with him after the tragedy. I felt sorry for him. He’d lost his mother when he was, what? Ten years old. And then he lost his dad, and they were so close…”

  “I never had a quarrel with him, either,” Lacey said softly.

  “Is that why you want to go digging into the past? You think if you can prove Rick didn’t kill Al Jr., then you and Rory—”

  Lacey caught her breath. Was that why she was on her quest? So that she and Rory might be a couple again?

  “Of course not,” she said. “I want to know for myself. And for my dad.”

  “Who’s dead and gone.”

  “But his spirit lives on. His memory lives on—in me.”

  Gram fingered the handle of her teacup. “Did you ever consider that, if your father was innocent—and I’m not agreeing that he was, mind you—that there’s a murderer out there somewhere? And you might be putting yourself in danger?”

  Lacey nodded solemnly. “Even with that possibility, it’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

  *

  ROSY TWILIGHT HAD settled over the mountains when Lacey left Riverview and drove to Sophie’s. She parked in her assigned space and walked up the path to the porch. Sophie stood on the porch watering the hanging flower baskets with a garden hose.

  She peered at Lacey. “Oh, it’s you in that car. What happened to your convertible?”

  “You mean you haven’t heard?” Lacey climbed the steps and stood beside her. “You must be out of the loop.”

  Sophie moved the hose from one basket to the next in line. “I’ve been busy all day. One of our housekeepers is sick, and I filled in. Haven’t had time to check my phone. What happened?”

  Lacey told her about the Camaro’s breakdown.

  “Too bad,” Sophie said, “but that’s an older car for you. Hugh trades in ours every couple of years. ’Course, those old cars do have a certain allure. Rory thinks so, anyway.”

  “Yes, he’s really into collecting. He seems to be making it a business.”

  They chatted for a few more minutes, and then Lacey said, “I’d better go in. I’d planned to do some work tonight.”

  Sophie put out her hand. “Hold on a sec. I was cleaning out the library bookshelf and I found some books on the town’s history I thought you might be able to use.”

  “That’s great, Sophie. I appreciate your thinking of me.”

  After Sophie shut off the water and coiled up the hose, they went inside and down the hall to the library. A guest, a middle-aged woman, sat in a wing chair paging through a magazine.

  “Hi, Mrs. Peterson,” Sophie said. “How’d your day go?”

&nb
sp; Mrs. Peterson looked up and smiled. “Just lovely. We took a beautiful boat ride down the river. So glad we stopped here on our way east.”

  “We are, too.” Sophie turned to Lacey. “The Petersons are from Seattle and are driving to the East Coast.”

  “Our son lives in Baltimore,” Mrs. Peterson said. “We decided to drive instead of fly so that we could see the country.”

  “That should be an interesting trip,” Lacey said.

  A man appeared in the doorway. “Oh, here you are, Mabel. Time for our program.”

  “Oh, already?” She put down the magazine and stood. “See you tomorrow, Sophie. Looking forward to those pecan rolls we saw on the menu.”

  After the Petersons left, Sophie turned back to Lacey. “I do love this business. I meet so many interesting people.”

  “You’re a good hostess, too. This was the right choice for you and Hugh.”

  “Yes, he was hard to convince, but now he’s glad to be here, too.”

  She led Lacey to a table near the fireplace. “Here are the books, pamphlets and also some photos I found of your parents and Hugh and me when we went on a picnic. Thought you might like to have them.” She indicated an envelope on top of the stack.

  “Pictures? Yes, I would like to have them.” Lacey picked up the envelope and pulled out the snapshots. In one picture, her mother and father stood under a cottonwood tree, their arms around each other, the river flowing in the background.

  “Mom and Dad look really happy.”

  Sophie nodded. “They were—most of the time.”

  Lacy studied the photo. “Mom’s wearing her amethyst necklace, the one that belonged to Grandmother Whitfield.”

  “Yes, she loved that necklace. Rick used to tease her, saying he was going to steal it and pawn it. And she’d get really upset. That necklace meant a lot to her.”

  Pawn it. That was what Gram said Lacey’s father had actually done, not just teased about.

  “Do you know what happened to the necklace?” she asked Sophie.

  Sophie shook her head. “Why, no. Did it go missing?”

  “I read in her journal that she lost the necklace at The Owl, and that someone found it and was going to return it to her. The day of the murder, actually.”

  “Who found it? Did she say?” Sophie wrinkled her forehead.

  “No, she didn’t include the person’s name.”

  “Was it Al? I don’t remember anything about the necklace at the trial.”

  “I don’t, either. I really need to find that necklace.” Lacey tapped her finger on the photo.

  “Why? Because it’s a family heirloom?”

  “Not just that. I need to find it because I believe it’s the key to what really happened that day.”

  Sophie took a step back and vigorously shook her head. “Lacey, don’t. Don’t go down that road. Leave it alone.”

  Surprised at Sophie’s strong reaction, Lacey narrowed her eyes. “Do you know something you’re not telling me?”

  Sophie pressed her hand over her mouth. “I—No, of course not. But now I understand why you took Elton’s job. Not because you want to do him and the town a favor, but because you want to poke around in the past. Trust me, that’s a waste of time.”

  “How do you know that?” Lacey put down the photos and propped her hands on her hips.

  “I just do.” Sophie bit her lower lip and looked away. “And if you continue, I’m afraid you’ll get hurt—more than you already are. You don’t need more hurt, Lacey. You need to heal.”

  Later, in her room, Lacey sat at the table gazing out the window. Dusk had faded into night and, except for a few lights here and there, the landscape lay in darkness. She hugged her arms and sighed. She’d never felt so lonely in her life. So far, she’d met with nothing but resistance in her quest. Gram, Claire Roche and now Sophie had warned her to back off. Were they concerned for her welfare or was something else behind their warnings?

  *

  LACEY STOOD ON Main Street and studied the metal owl above the restaurant’s door. The sculpture was beautiful, the feathers a shiny blue and green, the head gray and gold. The restaurant was closed now, but when it opened in a couple hours, one of the owl’s eyes would wink and one wing would move up and down, beckoning customers inside.

  Lacey had never frequented The Owl, not even when her mother worked there. The restaurant attracted older people. Older men, to be precise. Truckers passing through, construction workers and businessmen, too. Like A. J. Dalton and his son, Al Jr. When he had been in town, Lacey’s father, Rick, was a customer. He came not so much to eat and drink but to join the card game in the back room. He hadn’t been there for several days prior to the murder because he’d been working out of town. Maybe if he had, things might have turned out differently.

  Today Lacey was here to interview The Owl’s owner, Jorgen Miller, for the Sentinel’s special edition. Sara Hoskins’s list noted the restaurant had an interesting history.

  However, knowing her mother had worked there, Lacey had a special interest in the place—and in the owner, who had been her mother’s boss. Considering the reactions she’d had from people so far, though, she’d be careful talking about anything concerning her mother.

  Lacey tore her gaze away from the owl and approached the door. A Closed sign hung in one window. Next to that was a menu. The fare hadn’t changed much over the years: steak and mashed potatoes, chicken and dumplings, ham and beans. Guy food, with a few salads thrown in to please the wife or girlfriend.

  Lacey knocked on the door and waited. Finally, the lock snapped, and a man opened the door. When he saw her, his jaw dropped.

  “Mr. Miller? I’m Lacey Morgan, from the Sentinel. We have an appointment.”

  “Oh, sure. You gave me a start there for a second. You look so much like her.”

  “Like my mother? Yes, I know.”

  Jorgen Miller opened the door wider and stepped aside. “And I haven’t seen you in a long while, other than a glimpse around town now and then.”

  Lacey crossed the threshold. “I don’t stay in town long. This visit is different, since I’ve agreed to help Elton Watts.”

  “You mind talkin’ in the bar?” He thumbed over his shoulder. “My bartender called in sick this morning, and I gotta get the place set up.”

  “No, I don’t mind.”

  In his sixties, Jorgen was slender, with narrow shoulders and slim hips. He had a sun-weathered face, gray stubble, gray hair and wore rimless eyeglasses. The rolled-up sleeves of his white shirt exposed a tattoo of an owl on his right forearm.

  He led Lacey through the restaurant’s main dining room. Booths lined the walls on one side; on the other was a counter. Tables and chairs filled the center. An open door led to a brightly lit kitchen. Sounds of pots and pans clanging and the aroma of something spicy drifted along the air.

  They went through a dark doorway into a dimly lit room. The bar ran the length of one wall. As in the dining room, here tables and chairs filled the center, and high-backed booths lined the far wall. A glass display case held a collection of owl figurines. She tried to imagine her mother working there, serving drinks and food, smiling and joking with the customers.

  Spying a closed door at the far end, Lacey wondered if it led to the room where the card games were played. She wouldn’t ask, though, at least, not before she began the interview.

  “Have a seat.” Jorgen waved to the bar stools.

  Lacey set her purse on the counter and perched on a leather-covered stool. The smell of stale alcohol hung in the air.

  Jorgen poured a cup of coffee from a glass carafe and set it in front of her. Then he began unloading glasses from the dishwasher and placing them on the shelf.

  Lacey readied her tablet and tape recorder. Seeing Jorgen’s frown, she said, “I hope you don’t mind my taping the interview. I sometimes miss important information if I rely only on my note-taking.”

  “Okay—I guess.”

  Never mind his grudging t
one; she’d interviewed tough subjects before. She could handle Jorgen Miller.

  Lacey sipped her coffee. “As I told you on the phone, Sara Hoskins had you on her list for the newspaper’s special edition. Her note said your restaurant has an interesting history.”

  “You might say so.”

  “Let’s start with you. What got you into this business?” Lacey poised her fingers over the tablet.

  Jorgen set another glass in place. “I was a cook in the army. After I got out, I didn’t know what to do.”

  As Lacey expected, Jorgen’s tone softened. Like many people, he enjoyed talking about himself.

  “So you came home to Silver River.”

  “Not exactly. The town hadn’t been my home, but a cousin lived here. Danny O’Brien. He’s dead now.” His expression sobered. “He had most of the money to start this place. We became partners. I cooked, and Danny was out front with the customers. We rented the place from A. J. Dalton. He owned the building. Still does.”

  Lacey wasn’t surprised. Besides selling property, A.J. owned a lot himself. “Is he a good landlord?”

  Jorgen raised an eyebrow. “You need that for your story?”

  “No, I was just curious.”

  “Then I’ll skip the answer.” He ducked his head to retrieve two more glasses from the dishwasher.

  Lacey finished adding a note on her tablet. “Okay. Tell me how you chose the restaurant’s name.”

  “There’s an old stump behind the building.” Jorgen rearranged the glasses to accommodate the new ones. “Used to be an owl sittin’ there when I came to work in the morning. And sometimes when I’d leave at night he’d be there. Like he was watching over the place. I told my customers about it.

  “One guy who heard the story was a local artist, a metal sculptor named Will Ersholz. He designed and made an owl and gave it to us. It’s the one that’s over the front door.”

  “I love that story,” she said when he’d finished. “I’ll be sure to use it in the article. Is Mr. Ersholz still in town? I’d like to talk to him, too.”

  Jorgen shook his head. “He moved away. Don’t know where he went.”

  Lacey added the information to her notes and drank some more of her coffee. When she looked up, Jorgen had finished shelving the glasses and stood with his hands propped on his hips watching her. “You got enough now?”