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A Cloud of Suspicion
Patricia Davids


What's he doing back in town? With his black leather jacket, Patrick Rivers looks every inch the bad boy the townsfolk believe him to be. Ten years ago, he left Loomis, Louisiana, under a cloud of suspicion. Back to settle his stepfather's estate, Patrick knows he isn't welcome and can't wait to leave.Until Shelby Mason gives him a reason to stay. Because Shelby knows a secret…and someone in Loomis will do anything to keep her quiet.









“I should get going,” Patrick said.


Shelby turned away to open the book-drop bin beneath the window. As she raised the lid, a long, black shape slithered onto the floor and coiled in front of her. A scream tore from her throat.

Raising its head, the cottonmouth snake reared back and opened its jaws, revealing its needle, sharp fangs.

Patrick vaulted over the counter and swept Shelby into his arms. The snake struck his boot, twisting its head to drive its fangs and venom deep. Patrick knew this was no accident, but why would anyone want to harm someone as sweet as Shelby?

WITHOUT A TRACE: Will a young mother’s disappearance bring a bayou town together…or tear it apart?

What Sarah Saw—Margaret Daley, January 2009

Framed!—Robin Caroll, February 2009

Cold Case Murder—Shirlee McCoy, March 2009

A Cloud of Suspicion—Patricia Davids, April 2009

Deadly Competition—Roxanne Rustand, May 2009

Her Last Chance—Terri Reed, June 2009




PATRICIA DAVIDS


continues to work as a part-time nurse in the NICU while writing full-time. She enjoys researching new stories, traveling to new locations and meeting fans along the way. She and her husband of thirty-two years live in Wichita, Kansas, along with the newest addition to the household, a stray cat named Spooky. Pat always enjoys hearing from her readers. You can contact her by mail at P.O. Box 16714, Wichita, Kansas 67216, or visit her on the Web at www.patriciadavids.com.




A Cloud of Suspicion

Patricia Davids








Special thanks and acknowledgment to Patricia Davids

for her contribution to the Without a Trace miniseries.


In the day of my trouble I will call upon thee:

for thou wilt answer me.

—Psalms 86:7


This book is dedicated with great love and deep

respect to my father, Clarence. Thanks for the

swing, the collie puppy, my first horse, your used

car and the occasional loan. But most of all—

thanks, Daddy, for the gift of your endless love.




CONTENTS


PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

EPILOGUE

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION




PROLOGUE


Shelby Mason sat bolt upright in the darkness, her heart pounding in her chest. The next shrill ring of the phone dimmed her nightmare-induced panic, pulling her back into reality.

She glanced at the glowing numbers on her clock. 3:14 a.m. Who would be calling now? Who else had died?

A third ring prodded her to pick up the handset. “Hello?”

“Shelby, it’s Clint Herald. Is Leah there?” His voice vibrated with anxiety.

Shelby pushed her long red hair out of her face. “Clint, do you know what time it is?”

“I know it’s late, but Leah hasn’t come back to pick up Sarah and she hasn’t called. I’m worried sick.”

Pressing a hand to her forehead, Shelby tried to make her sleep-soaked brain work better. The dregs of her fading nightmare made it hard to focus. “I haven’t seen your sister since yesterday morning. Have you tried her cell phone?”

“Dozens of times. It goes straight to voice mail. She dropped Sarah off with me this evening and said she had a meeting, but it wouldn’t take long. Do you have any idea where she might be or who she was seeing?”

His concern was contagious. Shelby scooted back to lean against the headboard. “No, but I’m sure there’s a rational explanation. Maybe she needed some time alone. The past few days have been really rough for her.”

“I thought of that, but she wouldn’t leave Sarah for this long without letting me know. Something’s wrong.”

He was right. Leah always put her three-year-old daughter first. “Have you called the police?”

“They say they can’t do anything until she’s been missing for twenty-four hours.”

“What? Her husband just committed suicide, and the police won’t start a search for her? That’s crazy.”

“I told them that, but it didn’t do any good. Did she seem okay when you were with her? Did you see her talking to anyone out of the ordinary?”

Shelby racked her mind. “No. She did seem preoccupied, but I assumed it was still the shock of Earl’s death.”

“All right,” he conceded, resignation heavy in his words. “I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“Don’t be sorry. Call me as soon as you hear from her. I don’t care what time it is. Can I do anything?”

“At this point, just pray.”

“Of course.”

After hanging up, Shelby swung her legs over the side of the bed. Sleep was usually impossible after the recurring nightmare she could never fully recall. Tonight, worry for Leah pushed her dream into the background.

Rubbing her hands up and down her arms, Shelby tried to convince herself that Leah was fine. It would turn out to be a simple misunderstanding. It had to be. Leah had been through so much already.

The frantic barking of a neighbor’s dog abruptly shattered the stillness.

Shelby searched the cool wooden floor with her toes until she found her slippers. Sliding into them, she rose and crossed to the tall, narrow second-story window that overlooked the street outside. Pulling back the lace curtains, she pressed her forehead against the chilly glass.

The dog stopped barking. Silence blanketed the night once more.

Outside, Loomis, Louisiana, slumbered in a cold dense January mist that rose from the swamps south of town. The streetlight at the corner was only a faint white orb that did little to penetrate the darkness. Tiny pellets of sleet occasionally hit the window, melting into drizzle.

It had been years since Loomis had seen such freak winter weather. She shivered at the thought of her friend out in it. Where was Leah?

Unanswered questions crowded Shelby’s mind. What if she’d been overcome with grief and done something foolish? Leah and Earl had been having problems before his death. Could there be another man? Was she with someone else?

No! Shelby dismissed the ideas as soon as they formed. Leah knew right from wrong. The love of her family and her faith were keeping her strong.

After slipping into her pale-green cotton robe, Shelby sat in the bentwood rocker in the corner of her room and turned on her reading lamp. The burst of light did nothing to dispel her worry.

Rocking back and forth, she let the creaking of the chair keep her company as she waited for Clint’s call and watched the numbers on the clock tick past. Silently, she prayed for her friend.

Hours later, when the early-morning sunlight spilling through her window finally overpowered the lamp, she turned it off.

The storm had passed, but Clint hadn’t called. That meant only one thing.

Leah hadn’t come home.




ONE


“It’s been nearly three months since Leah vanished. How can the FBI still be clueless? What’s the matter with you people?” Wendy Goodwin demanded.

“Hush, Wendy.” Shelby grabbed her cousin’s arm. Throwing an apologetic look at FBI agent Jodie Gilmore, Shelby asked, “Nothing new at all? I thought when I saw you back in town there might be a new lead.”

Jodie’s eyes held sympathy and understanding. “I’m only here because the home office received a phone tip we thought worth checking into. It didn’t pan out. We haven’t had a solid new lead since the discovery of Leah’s shoe in February at that abandoned house in the swamp.”

The slipper hadn’t led them to Leah. Instead, it led investigators to uncover and solve a twenty-five-year-old triple murder. One of the victims had been Jodie’s mother. Another Loomis woman who had vanished without a trace.

If anyone in the bureau would keep looking for answers, it would be Jodie.

Shelby nodded her thanks. She came by the sheriff’s office at least three times a week to check on her friend’s case. As the months passed with no new information, the FBI’s Missing Persons task force had gone back to New Orleans.

When Shelby saw Jodie today, her hopes had risen, but once again she faced bitter disappointment.

Soon they would call off the search and give Leah up for dead.

“I think it’s just criminal you people aren’t doing more.” Wendy raised her voice in a parting shot.

Shelby dragged her cousin out the door. Her sentiments might be the same as Wendy’s, but she could never voice them the way her outspoken cousin did.

Once outside the sheriff’s office, Shelby released Wendy. “I want Leah to be found as much as you do, but insulting the people looking for her isn’t going to help.”

Wendy crossed her arms and shivered, although the morning was warm with late March sunshine and rising humidity. “It’s just so frightening. How does someone we know vanish? This kind of thing happens only in movies.”

“It happens in real life, too, Wendy.”

“It doesn’t happen to your friend. To someone who attends the same church. To someone who brings her daughter to our library for Story Hour.”

Shelby drew Wendy close in a comforting hug. “I know. I’m frustrated, too, but the sheriff’s office insists they are doing all they can.”

“Do you think she’s dead?” Wendy whispered.

Pulling back, Shelby gazed into her cousin’s worry-filled blue eyes. With one hand she smoothed back a lock of Wendy’s blond hair. “I can’t think that way. I have to believe she’s alive.”

Please, Lord, let it be true for little Sarah’s sake.

Wendy rubbed the back of her neck as she admitted, “After the other murders, it’s hard to hold on to hope.”

“That’s why we have to put our faith in God. He’s watching over Leah.”

Wendy cast a glance around. “I know you’re right, but you can’t deny this is a scary time. I get up a dozen times at night to make sure the doors and windows are locked. I don’t go out after dark. I don’t let the kids play outside alone. I look twice at everyone I know and I think, could it be them?”

Depression dragged at Shelby’s spirits. “I know. I feel the same way.”

“The whole town is on edge. I thought for sure when Vera Peel was arrested two weeks ago for the old murders that she was the killer. Some people are still insisting she is. Dylan Renault and Angelina Loring were both struck over the head and shot in the back, just like the skeletons that were found in that old cellar.”

“Vera Peel confessed to killing her husband, Jodie’s mother and that poor woman in the gazebo twenty-five years ago, but she has an alibi for the time of Dylan’s murder. Besides, Leah’s husband wasn’t shot in the back.”

“But Earl was shot, and it wasn’t suicide. Some people are saying—”

“I know they’re saying Leah killed Earl for the insurance money, that she panicked and skipped town, that she ran off with some unknown lover. None of it is true.”

None of it makes sense. Lord, we need Your help. Please keep Leah safe and bring her home to us.

Releasing her cousin, Shelby started toward the crosswalk at the corner of Church Street and Main. Their destination was the restaurant inside the Loomis Hotel. Coffee made with chicory and scalded milk and the mouth-watering beignets at the posh Café Au Lait were a Monday-morning custom the women had enjoyed for the past two years.

Shelby, Wendy and Leah had first chosen the high-class setting to celebrate Shelby’s appointment as head librarian at the Loomis Public Library. The women had been starting their work week in the same way ever since.

When Shelby and Leah’s high-school friend, Jocelyn Gold, returned to Loomis to open up a practice as a child psychologist, they were quick to include her in their tradition. They’d shared some great times and plenty of laughter together.

Knowing Leah wouldn’t be joining them put a damper on what used to be a lighthearted gathering, but sticking to the ritual had become a means of keeping each other’s spirits up.

“How can y’all be so sure Leah isn’t guilty?” Wendy asked. “We never know what another person is capable of doing.”

Shelby didn’t hesitate. “Leah wouldn’t abandon Sarah. That little girl is everything to her.”

“You’re right. I’m going crazy with all the uncertainty. Leah couldn’t ask for a better friend than you, Shelby.”

“I wish that were true. If I’d been a better friend, she might have confided in me. I knew something was bothering her, I just didn’t think it was any of my business.”

They were almost at their destination when Shelby noticed a motorcycle occupying a parking space in front of the hotel. The custom chrome-and-black machine crouched in the line of sedans and SUVs, looking like a panther among a herd of milk cows.

The leather studded saddlebags over the rear tire conjured up images of life on the road, escape, excitement, daring. All the things Shelby read about in the books at the city library where she worked but had never experienced for herself.

Looking over her shoulder as she pulled open the café door, she couldn’t help the wistful tone in her voice as she stepped inside. “I wonder who that belongs to.”

“It’s mine.”

At the sound of a man’s low rumbling voice, a feeling of electricity raced over her nerve endings. Her head whipped around, and Shelby found herself staring at the zipper of a black leather jacket decorated with the same silver studs as the saddlebags.

Looking higher, she met the owner’s dark hooded gaze and recognition hit her like a kick to the stomach.

Patrick Rivers was back in Loomis.



It took Patrick a few seconds to place the petite woman with a cascade of thick red hair swirling about her shoulders. Her light-brown eyes widened and color flooded her cheeks in two perfect circles of berry-bright skin.

Only one woman he remembered in Loomis could blush so sweetly. Chunky, shy Shelby Mason had bloomed into a true Southern rose.

A wry smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. The word chunky no longer applied. Her soft lilac dress with tiny white polka dots accented her feminine curves to perfection.

Her quick indrawn breath and the backward step she took confirmed what he already suspected. She recognized him, too.

“Miss Mason, isn’t it?” he asked.

Irritation swept over him at how easily the Louisiana drawl returned to his voice. He’d worked hard to remove any reminders of Loomis from his life, including his accent.

Her hand went to her throat. A flutter of nervousness that she couldn’t hide made her fingers tremble. She regarded him with suspicion. Like everyone else in the gloomy city. Anger rose like bitter bile in his mouth.

There was no place like home—home sweet home.

To her credit, Shelby quickly regained her composure. “Mr. Rivers. I heard that your stepfather had passed away. Please accept my condolences.”

The pure charm of her lilting voice took him straight back in time. Back ten years to the days when the local college girls had flirted outrageously with a poor boy from the wrong side of the tracks because he could throw a football better than anyone in St. Tammany Parish.

Back to the night one spoiled, vain debutante ruined his life.

It didn’t matter that he had been innocent of the crime, that the charges had been dropped. Coral Travis had accused him of rape. The stigma stuck to him like the odor of rotting vegetation permeated the black mud of the bayou.

He had tried to face down the rumors, the looks, the mistrust, but in the end leaving had been his only option.

Gritting his teeth against the pain of those memories, he gave Shelby a brief nod. “Thanks, but Dan and I weren’t that close.”

Did he imagine sympathy filled her eyes before she looked down? He wanted to reach out and lift her chin to be sure. Kindness from anyone in Loomis was a rare thing.

Her long lashes fluttered up as she met his gaze again. The morning sunlight brought out flecks of green in her eyes that he’d never noticed before. Beneath the overpowering aromas of coffee and pastry he caught a subtle hint of her fresh flowery fragrance.

When had the self-effacing little librarian grown to be such a beauty?

Realizing he was blocking the doorway, he stepped aside and allowed her to enter. To his surprise, she didn’t rush past him the way her companion did, but paused at his side.

A half smile trembled on her lips. She looked adorably uncertain of the correct way to address an accused rapist. Finally, she managed to ask, “Will you be staying in Loomis long?”

A sharp gasp made him look beyond Shelby to see the architect of his disgrace staring at him in wide-eyed shock.

Coldness settled in his chest and spread through his body. This was exactly the scene he’d dreaded from the minute he knew he was coming back to Loomis.

Of course, it had to happen in front of dozens of witnesses.

Only years of practice at keeping his emotions hidden prevented him from bolting out the door. His indifference might be a veneer, but time and pain had made it thick. He didn’t move so much as a muscle.

Coral Travis hadn’t changed much in the intervening years. She was still a beautiful woman. Her hair, a lighter shade of blond now, was styled loose about her shoulders. Dressed in a white ensemble, she clung to the arm of a tall handsome blond man in a tailored gray suit. They made a striking couple. Behind them stood five more men in business attire.

Staring at Coral, Patrick saw the shock in her eyes quickly change to fury, then a hard look of calculation develop in their depths. Her gaze shifted to Shelby without softening.

He glanced around the café with its rich dark paneling. High-backed booths edged the room and a dozen tables covered with snowy white cloths filled the rest of the space. Every table was occupied. The hum of conversations stilled. People began staring and whispering to each other.

He recognized some of the faces, all older, all judgmental.

Don’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you care.

Deliberately raising his voice, he focused on Shelby. “It’s been a pleasure seeing you again, Miss Mason. Let’s get together and talk about old times. Remember the football championship?” Bitterness burned like acid on his tongue as he glared at Coral. “More than one game was played that night.” He nodded to Shelby. “I’ll be in town a week or two unless the sheriff runs me out sooner. Is Bradford Reed still sheriff around here?”

“Yes, he is.” Shelby’s eyes darted to Coral and back to him. He read her confusion and discomfort. Suddenly, he wished he hadn’t used her to take a jab at Coral.

“Things haven’t changed much here, have they?” he stated bitterly and loud enough to be overheard by everyone.

Before she could answer, Patrick walked out the door and let it slam shut behind him.



Shelby stood aside as Coral, pausing only to shoot a look of malice at Shelby, left the building followed by her fiancé, Wendell Bixby, and the other members of Wendell’s election committee. As the door closed behind them, Shelby stepped to the window and watched them quickly cross the street.

Patrick strolled to his bike, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Shelby wasn’t exactly sure what had just happened. Somehow, she’d found herself in the cross fire between Patrick and Coral. Talk about uncomfortable.

But then, nothing between Shelby and Coral had been comfortable since the night of Coral’s alleged rape. Shelby didn’t know the whole story, but she knew enough to wonder if Coral had lied. Only—why would she?

Shelby watched Patrick settle astride his motorcycle and pull it upright. She wanted to believe he had been innocent of the charges Coral leveled against him, but only the two of them knew for certain what happened that night.

Studying Patrick, Shelby decided that he had changed a good deal since college. His hair was still a thick sable brown, but he wore it shorter now and there was a touch of gray at his temples. Fine crow’s-feet fanned out from the corners of his dark-as-molasses eyes giving him a world-weary look.

Tilting her head slightly, she decided it was more of a world-wary look.

Drawing a pair of aviator sunglasses from his breast pocket, he slipped them on. Shelby’s heart skipped a beat—or two. His magnetic, bad-boy aura hadn’t dimmed a bit over the years. If anything, he was more attractive than ever.

Dressed in a leather jacket, tight faded jeans and black boots, he looked like he had ridden straight off a movie set. He looked like trouble waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting town.

She jumped a fraction when the bike roared to life. After revving the engine, he backed out of the parking space and rode away. Only then did she come out of her mental fog.

“On the contrary, Mr. Rivers,” she muttered softly. “Things have changed a great deal in Loomis in the past few months, and none of it for the better.”

“Who is he, and how do you know a hunk like that?” Wendy demanded at her elbow, her voice brimming with awe.

Taking in the number of people staring at them, Shelby steered Wendy to the nearest booth where Jocelyn was already waiting for them and watching the exchange with interest.

Jocelyn’s recent wedding to FBI agent Sam Pierce had been a bright spot in the otherwise frightening events of the year. Dressed in a beige suit jacket with dark-brown piping, Jocelyn radiated professional confidence and a quiet happiness Shelby envied.

Wendy scooted into the booth beside her. Wearing a purple, flowing print skirt and lacy camisole top under a crocheted multicolored shrug, Wendy radiated…Wendy.

“Yes, Shelby,” Jocelyn added with a curious smile. “Do tell us who that was.”

Shelby slid across the red vinyl bench opposite Jocelyn and Wendy and glanced at her cousin. “You don’t remember Patrick Rivers?”

Wendy tipped her head. “Should I?”

“You were two years behind me in school, so maybe you didn’t know about him.”

A slight frown marred Jocelyn’s forehead. “I don’t remember him, either.”

“You had already moved away,” Shelby explained. “He was a junior when I was a freshman at Loomis College. He was the football captain and quarterback. NFL scouts were lining up around the block to watch him.”

Wendy’s eyes widened with sudden shock. “He’s the guy that raped Coral Travis.”

Casting Wendy a quelling glance, Shelby leaned forward and spoke quietly. “The charges were dismissed due to lack of evidence.”

“Which means he got away with it,” Wendy declared. “No wonder she looked like she’d seen a ghost. Do you think there’s a connection between Leah’s disappearance, the murders and his sudden return?”

Was there?

Shaking her head, Shelby lifted a laminated menu from the metal holder at the end of the table. “I don’t see how. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence that he’s here now. His stepfather died a few weeks ago.”

Wendy looked unconvinced. “He could be back to get his revenge. Did y’all see the cold way he looked at Coral? First a murderer loose in town and now a rapist. I’m telling you, Shelby Sue, I have no idea what this town is coming to. I feel like locking myself in the house and swallowing the key.”

Reaching across the table, Shelby covered Wendy’s hand with her own. “Then who would help me run the library, Wendy Jean?”

“No one. I’d lock you in the house with me.”

Jocelyn slipped her arm around Wendy’s shoulders. “We should all be careful, but we can’t hide from life. Now more than ever, the people of this town—particularly the children—need normalcy.”

“And caution…and mace,” Wendy declared. “I’m getting y’all cans of pepper spray the minute we leave here.”

Shelby smiled. “You know what a klutz I am. I’d end up spraying myself in the face.”

“Don’t make light of this. I’ve lost one friend already. I don’t want to lose you, too. Maybe if Leah had had something to defend herself with…” Wendy’s voice trailed off.

“I think about that, too,” Jocelyn added quietly.

In the sudden stillness, Shelby knew they were all thinking the same thing. Three people they knew had been murdered. Leah was most likely dead, her body disposed of somewhere in the trackless miles of swamp.

A killer was still on the loose in their town. How soon would he or she kill again? Who would be the next victim?




TWO


The house wasn’t much to look at.

Patrick turned off his bike and sat staring at the sky-blue cottage situated near the outskirts of Loomis. His childhood home, such as it was, hadn’t seen a new coat of paint in years. Perhaps not since he’d left a decade ago.

The steamy Louisiana humidity wasn’t kind to bare wood. He’d be lucky if there wasn’t rot in the steps leading up to the narrow front porch.

He put down the kickstand and swung his leg over the seat. Standing upright, he stretched a few residual kinks out of his back. Los Angeles was a long, long way from Loomis.

He’d spent last night at the hotel because his stepfather’s attorney’s office had been closed when Patrick rolled into town. In a way, the delay had been good. He certainly hadn’t wanted to revisit his personal ghosts at night. It was hard enough in the light of day.

The only bright spot in the whole trip had been seeing Shelby Mason again. It surprised him how attractive he found her. He’d made a habit of avoiding serious involvements with women, and with good reason.

What would it be like to be an ordinary man in Loomis? To speak to a pretty woman without worrying about the stares and whispers?

Forget it. It’s not going to happen. If I needed proof, I got it this morning.

He was here to settle his stepfather’s estate, nothing more. He couldn’t change the past. All he could hope for was to profit from the present.

Avoiding the inevitable for a few minutes longer, he walked around the side of the house.

His boots crunched on the crushed oyster shell path that led past the detached garage to the backyard. He noticed the garage was in better shape than the house. The outside of the building was covered with new vinyl siding.

His stepdad had always enjoyed working in his shop, tinkering on his car or his lawnmower. A love of engines was about the only thing the two of them had in common.

Walking to the rear of the house, Patrick stopped at the sight that met him. The grass was knee-high. Honeysuckle vines and kudzu ran rampant over the chain link fence at the back of the property. An air of neglect hung over everything.

Looking at the single live oak tree in the center of the yard, he noticed a piece of weathered rope dangling from a branch. It was all that was left of the tire swing he’d used to hone his throwing arm.

He closed his eyes and breathed in. The coy, sweet fragrance of the flowering honeysuckle took him back to his childhood.

He could almost hear his mother’s voice calling him in to supper from a game of hide-and-seek with the neighborhood kids. How many summer evenings had he spent catching fireflies in this yard? How many nights had he camped out here under a makeshift tent with his best buddy, Wyatt? How many times had Wyatt’s family taken him along on their fishing trips to their cabin in the woods?

Sadness crept over Patrick. How could so much heartache and pain reside in the same place where he had known such happiness as a kid?

“I’m surprised you came back.”

Patrick’s eyes flew open at the sound of a man’s voice. Turning around, he found himself staring at his friend, Wyatt, grown up now and watching with dark eyes narrowed in displeasure from the back porch of the house next door.

Patrick swallowed the bitterness rising to the back of his throat. “Hello, Wyatt. It’s nice to see you, too.”

Wyatt Tibbs dropped his gaze. His lips pressed into a thin line, then he said, “Sorry about your stepdad.”

“Thanks.” Patrick motioned toward the well-kept white bungalow with blue shutters where Wyatt stood. “How are your folks?”

Making small talk was easier than tackling the big issue that lay between the two men. At least it was something.

“They moved to Arizona a few years back. I own the place now. Are you staying long?” Wyatt’s tone made it plain that Patrick wasn’t welcome.

Resentment simmered as Patrick stared at his former friend. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll move back here for good,” he suggested with thick sarcasm.

A woman’s voice called out from inside Wyatt’s house. “Honey, breakfast is ready.”

Wyatt glanced from Patrick to his own door and then back. “Staying isn’t a good idea.”

“I didn’t do it, you know.” Patrick had no idea why he felt compelled to defend himself again after ten years. No one had believed him then. Nothing had changed.

Wyatt stared at him for a long moment. “Like I said, staying isn’t a good idea.” He walked into his house, letting the screen door slam behind him.

Annoyed with himself for caring so much, Patrick blew out a breath between pursed lips and headed back to the front of the house. He needed to get rid of this part of his life. For good.

Climbing the steps, he pulled out the key his stepfather’s attorney had given him a short time ago and unlocked the front door.



The clinking of silverware against china and the murmur of voices surrounded Shelby as she waited on everyone to finish their French donuts. After licking a dusting of powdered sugar from her lips, she took a sip of her second cup of coffee.

Across the table, Wendy began folding and unfolding her napkin. “I heard they might cancel the Mother of the Year Pageant.”

Jocelyn nodded. “Ava Renault mentioned that the planning committee has seriously been considering it.”

Wendy crossed her arms and rubbed her hands up and down her sleeves. “After Jillian Morrison got a note telling her to withdraw or end up dead and then poor Nancy Bailey had bleach thrown in her face—well, it’s a wonder anyone is willing to be a contestant. I certainly don’t want to be nominated.”

“What do you think about canceling it?” Shelby asked Jocelyn.

“On one hand, I see it as an act of respect for Angelina and Dylan’s deaths and Leah’s disappearance, but on the other hand, it means the town is giving in to fear. I hope they don’t cancel it.”

Looking from Shelby to Jocelyn, Wendy said, “I know y’all were close friends with Leah in high school so you know her better than almost anyone. Do you think there’s any truth to the rumor that Dylan Renault is Sarah’s father?”

Shelby bit her lip. It wasn’t possible, was it? Yet Dylan Renault’s dying words had been, “Sarah’s father.” Words whispered in the ear of FBI agent Sam Pierce, Jocelyn’s husband.

No one was sure what Dylan meant by them but there was plenty of speculation.

Sensing Shelby’s hesitation, Wendy arched her eyebrows. “You know something you aren’t telling us.”

Shaking her head in denial, Shelby said, “I only know that Leah worked as Dylan’s secretary before she married Earl and that Dylan made her uncomfortable with his attention. She stopped working for him pretty abruptly after that company Christmas party four years ago.”

Jocelyn tipped her head slightly as she stared at Shelby. “Did something happen at that party?”

A shiver ran over Shelby’s skin. She didn’t like thinking about that night. She had attended at Leah’s insistence but had become so ill she later fainted. The whole night was nothing but a weird blur.

Afterward, Shelby began having nightmares—the same dream over and over again. A disembodied face looking down at her, laughing at her.

Pushing aside thoughts of her haunting dream, Shelby nodded. “Something happened that upset Leah a great deal, but she never talked about it.”

Jocelyn pushed aside her plate and folded her hands on the table. “Have you told Sam about this?”

“No.”

“I think you should. The FBI has been searching for a connection between Leah’s disappearance and Dylan’s murder.”

“I wish I could remember more. I got sick at the party and Leah did, too. I have this dream about that night, but I’m not sure what it means.”

“I might be able to help,” Jocelyn suggested.

Embarrassed, Shelby shook her head. “It’s just a dream.”

Wendy’s eyes narrowed as she leaned forward. “Who else was there? Maybe they know something.”

“A lot of people were there, but most of them were friends of Dylan’s. Not exactly my social circle.”

Shelby glanced toward the door. A long-forgotten face swam into focus. “Wendell Bixby was there. He worked for Renault Corporation back then. I could talk to him and see if he remembers anything odd about Dylan or Leah’s behavior.”

“Such idle gossip benefits no one, Miss Mason.” The hard, cultured voice of Charla Renault caught Shelby unaware. She hadn’t heard Charla’s electric wheelchair coming up behind her.

The scent of White Shoulders perfume mingled with the coffee and cinnamon in the air. Shelby turned in her seat to face the mother of the most recent murder victim in Loomis.

Charla’s dark eyes glittered with cold anger. “My son was never interested in someone as common as Leah Farley.”

Shelby wished she hadn’t been caught in the act of talking about the woman’s son. She wanted to defend Leah, but Charla had a way of making Shelby, and most of Loomis, feel small and insignificant. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Renault.”

The man who worked as Charla’s driver and servant rose from the booth behind Shelby. He settled his hat on his thick gray hair and ran a hand down the front of his impeccably pressed black chauffeur’s jacket. Apparently, he had been waiting for Charla to finish her breakfast, because he nodded to her and asked, “Shall I bring the car around, madame?”

“Yes.” She dismissed him with a wave. Although Charla Renault maintained a regal air, neither wealth nor social position had spared the matriarch of the Renault family her share of pain. Confined to a wheelchair after the car accident that claimed her husband’s life, Charla still ruled the family with an iron fist in a kid glove.

Dressed today in a pink twinset with a simple choker of small pink pearls at her throat, Charla looked the epitome of Southern class, but the death of her only son had been a blow from which many wondered if she would ever recover. Now she had only her daughter, Ava, to carry on the family traditions and businesses.

The word that Ava had recently become engaged to Max Pershing, son of Charla’s archrival and longtime social enemy, Lenore Pershing, was a prime bit of news making the rounds. The two families had been feuding for ages. Shelby could only pray that Max and Ava’s love would put an end to their family’s long-standing grudge once and for all.

Jocelyn spoke up. “It’s nice to see you out and about, Mrs. Renault.”

“Thank you.” Charla inclined her head, ever so slightly. As always, not a single dark hair dared slip out of place or show the smallest touch of gray. In her lap, her Jack Russell terrier, Rhett, growled low in his throat.

Charla laid a hand on the dog’s head to silence him and focused her gaze on Shelby. “I was just on my way to see you, Miss Mason.”

Taken aback, Shelby stuttered, “You…you wanted to see me?”

“Yes. Since my son’s untimely passing, I have been pondering how best to honor his memory in the community that he served with such devotion and dignity. I am considering making a sizable donation to the city library in his name.”

Shelby was sure she must look like a stunned pelican with her gaping mouth. “Mrs. Renault, I’m not sure what to say.”

Charla held up one hand, silencing Shelby as easily as she had the dog. “I’m also considering funding a scholarship in his name at the college. I would, of course, need assurance that the institution I choose will provide a lasting memorial that is befitting of the Renault name. I’d like to see a proposal from the library board on such a memorial by the end of next week.”

“Next week?” Shelby blinked hard.

“The dean at Loomis College assured me that a week would be sufficient time to present a plan. If you don’t feel up to the task, Miss Mason, I must wonder if you’re the right person to be in charge of our venerable and historic library.”

As the youngest head librarian ever employed by the city, Shelby had faced her share of detractors when she applied for the job, but she knew the library was prospering under her guidance.

Still, the city never had enough money in the budget to cover all the expenses and upkeep the “venerable and historic” building needed. Old and needy would be a more apt description of the place.

The chance to gain a sizable donation from the Renault family was a windfall that couldn’t be ignored.

“We have a general meeting of the board a week from Thursday, Mrs. Renault. You’re welcome to attend. I’m sure I can work up a proposal that will satisfy both your needs and the needs of our community.”

“Good, Miss Mason. However, should it come to my attention that you’re continuing to engage in baseless gossip about my son…well, I’m sure y’all can see how that would influence my decision.”

“Of course, Mrs. Renault.” It meant Charla would take her money elsewhere without batting an eye.

With another slight tilt of her head, Charla maneuvered her chair down the aisle toward the door, where the owner of Café Au Lait hurried to hold it open for her.

Wendy blew out a deep breath. “Her son’s death hasn’t changed her a bit.”

“Why do you say that?” Jocelyn asked.

“Because she still enjoys pitting people against each other. Shelby, you know the college will be crawling all over themselves to gain the old gal’s favor. They’ll cater to her every whim.”

“I’ll simply have to convince her that we can provide a better memorial than they can.”

Jocelyn gathered up her purse. “How are you going to do that?”

Shaking her head, Shelby admitted, “I have absolutely no idea.”

Wendy wrapped the last beignet in a napkin and stuffed it in her handbag. “Did you like him? I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but was Dylan Renault the kind of man who deserved to have a scholarship or a new library wing named after him?”

Shelby smiled sadly. “I didn’t like him, but I can’t blame his mother for wanting to see that her son’s name is treated with respect. We know it doesn’t matter if a dozen libraries are named after him. God is the final judge of us all. Only He knows the soul of Dylan Renault.”

Jocelyn laid a tip on the table. “Are you going to talk to Sam about the Christmas party?”

Shelby hesitated. She didn’t actually know anything. It was more of a feeling. Still, Jocelyn and Ava were close friends. What if it got back to Charla that Shelby was talking about Dylan again?

The college will be rubbing their hands with glee over their new donation, that’s what.

“I’ll call Sam if I remember something concrete. Otherwise, don’t say anything about it. I feel silly for mentioning it.”

After paying the check, the women left the café. With a round of quick hugs and promises to meet again next week, they parted ways. Jocelyn left for her office, while Shelby and Wendy walked toward the library. Shelby found herself checking the street for Patrick’s motorcycle, but to no avail.

She had been stunned to see him again after all this time, but she was honest enough to admit that surprise had been only part of her pulse-pounding reaction to the man. He was dangerously attractive, even more so now than when she had last seen him.

What she found truly disturbing was how much she wanted to see him again.

After crossing Main Street, Shelby and Wendy cut through the park on a paved path that led toward the city library. The smell of damp, newly cut grass hung in the air and mixed with the scent of flowers and blooming shrubs. The two women hurried past the small white gazebo standing alone at the center of the park.

At first glance, the lattice-covered structure looked picture-perfect in the setting, but on closer inspection one could see the paint was peeling and some of the slats were broken.

People who lived in Loomis knew that a woman had been murdered inside the gazebo twenty-five years ago. The death of that young mother was the reason Loomis started their annual Mother’s Day Festival with their Mother of the Year Pageant.

The pageant had grown from humble beginnings into the town’s biggest event with prize money worth thousands of dollars going to the mother who was chosen as the winner. Over the years, the money, gifts and prestige of winning had sparked some serious rivalries and even resulted in foul play among the women vying for Loomis’s most coveted title.

The mystery of the woman’s death had been solved when Vera Peel confessed to killing the amateur photographer because she had been taking pictures of the bayou the day Vera killed her husband and his lover there.

Even knowing how and why the woman had died hadn’t altered people’s perception of the gazebo. Only newcomers or visitors used it. The locals continued to give it a wide berth.

Suddenly a creaking, scuffling sound made Shelby and Wendy spin around in fright. A dark figure sat on the floor inside the structure.

It took a heart-stopping second for Shelby to recognize Chuck Peters, the town drunk who panhandled and did odd jobs around the city.

“I didn’t see nothing. I didn’t,” he muttered, and lurched to his feet.

Shelby sucked in several calming breaths, then took a step toward him. “Mr. Peters, you frightened us.”

He swayed slightly as he peered at them through his thick, black-rimmed glasses. During one of his sober spells, Chuck had worked briefly for Shelby’s father at his woodworking shop. After her father passed away, Chuck started doing odd jobs for the reclusive Vera Peel. With his benefactress now in jail for murder, Shelby had to wonder how he was managing.

Wendy tugged at Shelby’s arm. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Mr. Peters, do you need me to call Reverend Harmon for you?”

His eyes widened with fear. “No! Don’t call him. Don’t tell anyone you saw me here. Don’t tell. Swear you won’t tell!”

Hoping to reassure him, Shelby added quickly, “But Reverend Harmon can get you a hot meal and a place to stay.”

“No, I like this place. I can see who’s coming.” His eyes darted around like frightened birds seeking a way out of a cage.

“You can’t stay here. The police won’t let you,” she said gently.

It was obvious that he was more disturbed than usual. He ran his hands through his greasy, thinning red hair. “Don’t tell ’em I’m here. I didn’t see nothing that night. You can’t say I did.”

“What night, Mr. Peters?”

“Can’t say. Don’t know. Didn’t see nothing that night.”

Wendy pulled harder on Shelby’s arm. “Let’s go. You can’t help him if he doesn’t want it.”

Shelby allowed herself to be led away. “I’m going to call Reverend Harmon anyway. He’s dealt with Chuck in the past.”

“That’s a good idea. Maybe he can get the old loony back into the mental hospital where he belongs.”

“Wendy!” Shelby glanced back, but Chuck didn’t seem to be paying attention to them. He was making his way out of the gazebo with unsteady steps.

Beyond him, Shelby noticed another figure lurking in the shadows near the path. The man turned away abruptly before Shelby could see who it was.

“I’m only suggesting that Reverend Harmon can supply him with the professional help he needs.” Wendy defended her suggestion. “Let’s get out of this park. It’s creepy in here.”

Shelby had to agree, although she had always enjoyed the peace and quiet of the secluded place. Now, the tall live oak trees hung with Spanish moss seemed vaguely threatening. The thick azalea bushes laden with blooms seemed to offer hiding places for danger along with their beauty.

Like nearly everyone in Loomis, she found the fear of an unknown killer in their midst had changed her perspective of her hometown.



Mustiness assailed Patrick as he stepped into the front parlor. Little had changed in the years that he had been gone. The same faded area rug still covered the center of the hardwood floor. The same beige sofa sat in front of the small bay window. Dirt darkened the armrests of the matching chair across the room.

There was an empty coffee mug and stain rings on the small table beside the chair. He could picture his stepdad sitting there, staring out the window at the town that shunned him for raising a monster.

Patrick shook off the vision. For some odd reason his stepfather had stipulated in his will that if Patrick came back and settled the estate in person, it would all go to him. He didn’t know why. Maybe the old man wasn’t quite right in the head toward the end.

Patrick had almost refused. But the chance to gain enough to help him secure his future overrode his reluctance. Nothing else would have brought him back to Loomis.

He had a week or two to go through the place and get the house ready to go on the market. After that, he didn’t have to hang around to make sure someone actually bought it. His father’s attorney had been clear on that issue. All Patrick had to do was go through the belongings in the house and see to the repairs.

Looking around, Patrick began to feel a little more hopeful. The place wasn’t a total ruin. With a little paint and elbow grease he should be able to sell it. How ironic would it be if his stepfather had actually handed him the means to make his dreams come true?

Before today, Patrick figured it would take him another two years of scrimping and saving to buy into a partnership at the custom bike shop where he worked. His plan was to become part owner and eventually sole proprietor of Wolfwind Cycles.

Bikes were his life. His only love. A man could count on a good machine.

If he could make enough from the sale of this place, he could push his agenda forward by several years.

Walking around the living room, Patrick tried to take a quick inventory but found himself touching things and thinking about them. His mother had loved the painting of the old barn over the fireplace. He picked up the small pewter unicorn from the mantel. He had given it to her for Christmas the year before she died.

Closing his eyes, he recalled the feel of her hugs, the scent of her perfume, the happiness in her laughter. He searched for similar memories of his stepfather but couldn’t find them.

All he could hear was his stepfather’s angry voice raised in accusations. All he could see was the disappointment and repugnance etched on the face of the only father Patrick had ever known.

Opening his eyes, Patrick sighed. This wasn’t going to be as easy as he had hoped. Folding his fingers around the trinket, he shoved it deep in his pockets and rocked back on his heels.

There was a stack of books on the table beside his stepfather’s chair. Picking up the top book, Patrick saw it was a murder mystery by a popular new writer. He opened the cover. The book had been checked out of the Loomis library three months before.

Great. I’ve got overdue fines to pay.

He snapped the book shut and returned it to the top of the stack.

Someone, most likely the attorney, had gathered together a pile of mail and left it on the seat of the chair. Picking it up, Patrick sat and began to sort through it. Most of it was junk mail and old newspapers, but he did find a few bills he would have to take care of.

When he came across a late notice from the library, he read the note with special interest. It was signed by Shelby Mason.

Shelby, with the gorgeous red hair and roses in her cheeks. So she had moved from working at the college library to working at the city library. Why hadn’t she left this miserable town behind?

She’d been a sweet kid. He had wanted to ask her about her life this morning at the café, but he had left instead when he saw the number of cold stares leveled in his direction.

He’d cut short the conversation as much for her sake as for his. The gossip machine in Loomis could grind her up and spit her out in no time just for passing the time of day with him.

He tossed the letter aside with a weary shake of his head. It seemed he still had a need to protect the underdog.

What made him think Shelby Mason needed protection? In Loomis, he was the underdog. A cur no one would speak up for.

He rose and wandered through the kitchen and down the hall that led to the back of the house. His old bedroom was the first door on the right.

Stepping inside, he wasn’t surprised to find it stripped bare. His football trophies, his track ribbons, his posters of Easy Rider, Santana and Jennifer Lopez were all gone. His stepfather had gotten rid of every trace of him. Only the blue drapes remained to remind Patrick of the way the room once looked. He pulled the door shut.

The next room down the hall was his father’s bedroom. Easing the door open, Patrick looked in. The bed was neatly made. There were a few clothes scattered around, but nothing of his mother’s.

He frowned when he saw the empty bookcases lining two walls. Had his father gotten rid of his mother’s books?

Diana Rivers had been an English teacher with a true love of literature and history and a passion for collecting old books. Some of Patrick’s fondest memories were of the two of them traveling to estate sales, rummage sales, even auctions looking for unusual books on the state’s history or first editions of her favorite authors.

Once, at a garage sale in Covington she paid a dollar for a first edition of a Mark Twain novel and had spoken of it gleefully for months afterwards.

A lumber mill worker like his father and his grandfather before him, Ben Rivers had put up with his wife’s odd obsession, but he never understood why words were so important to her.

Patrick closed the bedroom door and turned to the last small room at the end of the hall. It had been his mother’s sewing room. When he pushed open the door, he found himself confronted with a room stacked full of packing boxes.

Lifting the lid off the nearest one, he found it contained some of his mother’s clothes. A second box held more of the same, but he relaxed when he opened the third box. In it were dozens of his mother’s books.

Sinking onto the dusty floor, Patrick drew out a novel bound with thick red leather and embossed with gold lettering. He breathed in the scent of the old paper and truly smiled for the first time since he had crossed the Louisiana state line.



Shelby’s day passed in a busy blur at the city library. After the weekend there were always plenty of books in the drive-up return book bin to be checked in, reshelved or mended. A rush of customers in the early afternoon kept her busy and left her little time to think about the type of memorial program she could develop for Mrs. Renault.

As busy as she was, she still found herself thinking about Patrick Rivers and the odd way he had smiled at her.

She’d had such a crush on him in college. Of course, he had barely noticed her.

As the captain of a winning football team he’d had his pick of girls, but he’d been more than a jock. He’d spent plenty of late nights studying at the campus library. Sometimes, when he stayed until she had to lock up, he would walk her to her dorm. It made her feel so special.

Looking back, her infatuation seemed silly now. Her dorm had been on the way to his place. He hadn’t really been walking her home. He’d just been walking in the same direction and being kind. It had been his kindness that made the accusations about him so hard to believe.

Shelby recalled the night vividly. Patrick had just led their team to a regional championship. Most of the campus had turned out to celebrate the big win with a bonfire in a secluded part of the bayou.

Shelby had watched the merrymakers with a touch of envy. It wasn’t that she wanted to drink or party, she just wanted Patrick to notice her.

He didn’t, of course, because she stayed in the background, a shy mouse of a girl that no one noticed. Not like Coral Travis. Everyone noticed her.

Standing by herself in the shadows that night, Shelby overheard a disturbing conversation. She recognized Coral’s voice telling someone that she was going home with Patrick, whether he knew it or not. He was her ticket out of Loomis.

Before Shelby could retreat, Coral had come out of a stand of small trees and spied her.

Shelby could still hear the mocking tone of Coral’s voice. “What are you doing here? Hoping some guy will get drunk enough to ask you out?”

From some unknown source of strength, Shelby managed to reply, “Patrick deserves better than you.”

Coral only laughed and said, “Get out of the sandbox, chubby, this is where the big kids play.”

Mortified, Shelby watched as Coral sauntered off and insinuated herself next to Patrick. The two of them left together less than half an hour later. Shelby took her bruised ego and wounded heart home where she indulged in a good cry.

The next day the news of Patrick’s arrest for rape spread across the campus like wildfire. Nearly everyone believed it was true.

Would it have made a difference if I’d spoken up and told the police what Coral said? But what reason would Coral have had to lie about such a serious charge?

The same questions had haunted Shelby for weeks afterward. When Patrick left town, she thought the answers didn’t matter anymore. Until now.

A patron approached Shelby for help finding a book. Pulling her mind out of the past, she dismissed Patrick Rivers from her thoughts and got back to work.

When five o’clock rolled around, Shelby and Wendy closed up and walked to their cars in the parking lot behind the building. The lot, shared with the town hall, the library and several other businesses, was quickly emptying as people headed home.

Shelby caught sight of Chuck Peters standing at the street corner checking a pay phone for loose coins. She knew a moment of guilt. She hadn’t found time to call Reverend Harmon.

Chuck glanced in her direction. He spun around and hurried away, casting frightened glances over his shoulder.

“Shelby, look,” Wendy said, drawing her attention away from the odd behavior of the little man.

Following Wendy’s gaze, Shelby saw Coral Travis talking to Wendell beside her car. An angry expression hardened Coral’s sharp features. It was plain the two were arguing.

Wendy’s eyes grew round as she relished more gossip. “I wonder what Wendell Bixby thinks about Patrick’s return? A city councilman running for mayor can’t be thrilled to have his fiancée’s unhappy past raked up again.”

Knowing the town as well as she did, Shelby knew that was exactly what would happen. Wendy wasn’t the only one who liked to gossip.

As Shelby stopped at her own car, she noticed a white slip of paper waving from beneath the driver’s side wiper blade. Expecting it to be simply another Mother’s Day Festival flyer, she unfolded it and stared at the message in astonishment.

The block-printed note said,

Keep your fat mouth shut about that night or you’ll regret it.




THREE


A few minutes before nine o’clock the next morning, Shelby was still pondering the mystery of the note as she and Wendy walked toward the library door with Sarah Farley holding both their hands.

After going over it a million times, the note still didn’t make sense. Why send her such a childish threat? Who could have written it? Keep her mouth shut about what night?

The night Leah went missing? The night Earl was murdered?

She’d gone over every minute of those nights with the police and the FBI a dozen times.

Mr. Peters had been babbling about not seeing something that night. Had his confused, paranoid mind focused on Shelby as a threat for some reason?

Or did the note refer to another night? The night of the Christmas party four years ago? The night of the bonfire ten years ago?

Charla Renault had certainly made it plain she wouldn’t tolerate gossip about her son, but Shelby couldn’t see Charla writing such a vague warning. She had no trouble delivering her threats in person.

That left Coral. Had she written the note? Shelby wouldn’t put it past her, but why? It didn’t make sense that after ten years Coral would suddenly start worrying that Shelby might talk about their confrontation the night of her alleged rape.

Was it because Patrick Rivers had returned?

Shelby inserted her key in the lock of the library door. The only explanation that made sense was that the note had been placed on her car by mistake.

She held the door open to let Wendy and Sarah precede her into the building as she struggled with the key. It always stuck. She would have to get a new one made one of these days.

“Can I go play?” Sarah looked at her for permission.

Shelby nodded and Sarah darted into the building. She already knew exactly where she wanted to go. The playroom where Shelby and Wendy held their Story Hour each Tuesday and Thursday morning at nine-thirty. A cast of character puppets lined the deep window seat in the room, waiting to be brought to life.

Once story time was over, Sarah’s next favorite activity was helping Shelby empty the return book bin. Standing on a chair beside the metal container, Sarah would proudly hand over the books one by one until it was empty.

For Shelby, it was fun and yet sad to see Sarah acting so grown-up. Leah would be proud of her.

After those activities, Sarah would play on her special floor mat behind the counter until Clint arrived.

Shelby smiled as Sarah raced away, followed closely by Wendy. Keeping the child with her at the library for two mornings a week was Shelby’s way of allowing Clint Herald a little breathing space.

The poor man had had parenthood thrust on him the same night his sister vanished. Shelby knew he was struggling to balance his construction business with Sarah’s full-time needs and the ongoing search for Leah. Helping him by entertaining Sarah for a few hours was the least she could do.

The sound of approaching footsteps made Shelby look over her shoulder. Patrick Rivers was climbing the steps behind her.

The sudden skip of her heart caught her completely off guard. Feeling as flustered as she had when she was a college freshman, she struggled to get the key out of the lock.

“Let me.” Closing his hand over hers, he turned it until it released.

“Thank you.” She yanked the key free and pulled away from him. Her hand tingled from his touch. Warmth raced up her arm.

“My pleasure.” He held the door open, allowing her to escape his overwhelming presence.

She crossed the entryway to the curved glass-fronted counter where her top picks for the week were displayed nestled in deep blue satin. Opening a small half door, she let herself behind the semicircular counter and closed the mahogany panel with a loud click. With the wide countertop between them she felt much more in control.

Patrick strolled in with an unhurried stride. Today he was wearing jeans and a sleeveless red denim shirt that exposed his tanned and muscular arms. Once again Shelby was reminded of a big cat on the prowl—all muscle and power waiting to explode. Her pulse kicked up another notch.

Please don’t let me sound as breathless as I feel.

Pasting a smile on her face, she said, “Good morning. How may I help you?”

The noise of the outer door opening caused them both to glance in that direction. Two women with toddlers in tow entered the building. The quick glance the women exchanged when they noticed Patrick told Shelby they knew exactly who he was. They both herded their children back outside.

Shelby saw the slight slump to his shoulders before he turned back to her and laid a stack of books on the counter.

It must be awful to have people look at him with such suspicion and fear. She didn’t want to feel sorry for him but she couldn’t help it.

Did he regret the past? Had he done it?

He pushed the books toward her. “I found these at the house. I wanted to return them and pay whatever fine is due.”

Opening the books, she found they were three months overdue. Did criminals return past-due library material? Why was it so hard to believe he’d done the things he was accused of?

“How much do I owe?” His grim face could have been carved out of stone.

The Patrick she remembered had smiled more. She suddenly missed that about him.

“Thank you for returning these. That will be one hundred dollars.”

“What?” His eyes widened and locked with hers, a scowl cutting two deep creases between his dark brows.

Had she really said that? She didn’t make jokes. She didn’t flirt with her patrons. No, she certainly wasn’t flirting.

She felt a rush of heat in her cheeks. “Just kidding. Our maximum fine is five dollars.”

Scanning each book back into the system allowed her to avoid looking at him. When she did glance up, it was to see a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

Relaxing, she said, “You didn’t check them out. I’m just happy you returned them. Of course, if you feel compelled to make a donation, I’ll gladly accept. It’s tax deductible.”

He pulled his wallet from his hip pocket and thumbed through it. Selecting a bill, he laid a twenty on the counter. “Keep the change.”

She smiled shyly. “Thank you. Let me get you a receipt.”



Patrick leaned his elbows on the counter and watched Shelby as she pulled the necessary form from a drawer. His intention that morning had been to drop the books into the drive-up bin. It wasn’t until he saw her walking across the parking lot that the desire to speak to her again had made him change his mind and come inside.

He was glad he had. Studying her, he tried to figure out why she was so appealing.

Her white blouse was simple and modest. She wore it tucked into the waistband of a narrow gray skirt. If she was trying to look the part of a librarian, she was succeeding.

She had a neat figure, but he’d seen far more stunning women who didn’t spark his interest the way Shelby Mason did.

Maybe it was her red-gold hair. He liked the way she wore it long and loose. Was that it?

When she glanced up at him again, he suddenly knew the answer. The appeal was in her eyes.

A pale green-brown, they changed with the light and her mood. Sometimes they were green, sometimes almost gold. There wasn’t any subterfuge or malice in her clear gaze. All he saw was kindness and curiosity and something he didn’t have. A sense of inner peace.

People might overlook a small woman like Shelby Mason, but she wouldn’t overlook anyone.

He glanced away, feeling an awkwardness that was unusual for him. Instead of staring at her, he looked around the room. The brightly painted walls and shoulder-high shelves didn’t look anything like the library he remembered from his many trips here with his mother when he was a kid.

The place was brighter, more open. The colorful red carpet underfoot helped muffle the noise. If it had been here when he was young, he might have gotten in less trouble with Old Man Hillshire for being noisy.

Patrick studied Shelby once more. Maybe it was her presence that made the place shimmer with light.

Don’t get fanciful. She wouldn’t give you the time of day if she didn’t have to.

“Will there be anything else?” she asked, handing him the receipt.

There wasn’t, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. “There’s been some changes in here. Looks nice.”

“Thank you. I’m rather proud of my accomplishments.”

She gestured toward a row of computers facing the wall. “We now have Internet access, books on tape, a regular series of speakers on Saturday afternoons and several special programs just for children.”

“I noticed the little girl who came in with you. Is she yours?”

He suddenly disliked the idea that she belonged to someone else. He didn’t want her to be happily married with children. He checked her left hand. She wasn’t wearing a wedding band.

Shelby’s smile faded. “No. Her name is Sarah Farley.”

“Farley? Why does that name ring a bell?” Picking up a loose ink pen, he began to twirl it on the counter.

“Her father, Earl Farley, was murdered and her mother has been missing for the last three months.”

He’d seen a few headlines about that in the newspapers at the house. “That must be rough on the kid.”

He glanced toward the area where Sarah was making an elephant puppet romp over the other toys. Wendy was setting out small, red plastic chairs in a semicircle around a stage.

He knew what it was like to lose a mother. At least he’d had more years with his. A kid as young as Sarah wouldn’t have memories to cling to.

“It’s hard to say how much she really understands,” Shelby continued quietly. “She still asks for her mother, especially when she gets upset. It breaks my heart when that happens.”

“Her mother was a friend of yours?”

“Is,” Shelby stated firmly as she raised her chin. “Her mother is a friend of mine.”

“After three months, you don’t think she’s going to come waltzing back into town, do you?”

“If she can—she will.”

The conviction in Shelby’s words touched him. What would it be like to have someone believe so strongly in him?

“I’m just saying it isn’t likely.”

“I know. I pray the FBI will find her. I pray she’ll come home safe and sound. I pray she’ll walk in here and smother Sarah with hugs and kisses. I get up every day with faith in my heart that today will be that day God brings her back to us.”

Patrick knew her faith in God’s help was misplaced but couldn’t bring himself to say it to her face. “Why is the FBI looking into the case?”

“The mayor requested their help. Loomis has changed more than you might guess. We’ve had three murders here since the first of the year.”

“Three?” He was surprised.

“Angelina Loring and Dylan Renault were both murdered shortly after Earl Farley.”

Patrick gave a low whistle. “Dylan Renault, of the Renaults? I’ll bet that shook up the town. Wealthy playboy meets fitting end?”

She scowled at him. “Being shot in the back is not a fitting end for anyone.”

He tipped his head, acknowledging he was wrong. “Point taken.”

Funny that he didn’t want her thinking he was crass. Generally, he didn’t care what anyone thought. Why was it important that she think well of him? He’d be gone from this town in a week or so and he’d never see her again.

He straightened, determined to ignore the nagging little voice that told him to stick around and get to know her better. Women were trouble. Even pretty librarians. He’d learned that lesson all too well.

“I should go before the PTA starts boycotting the building.”

“They won’t,” she said quickly. “Don’t you remember what’s coming up?”

Did she want him to stay? Against his better judgment, he allowed himself to be persuaded. “What?”



Shelby bit the inside of her lip. What was she doing trying to prolong this conversation? Was she reliving some teenage fantasy? It was almost ridiculous how much she felt compelled to keep him here.

“The Mother’s Day Festival is right around the corner. No one is going to make waves until after the Mother of the Year winner is announced.”

She had work to do. She shouldn’t be standing here chatting with him. Other patrons were coming in with their children. Story time was the highlight of her week. She loved showing kids the wonders of a book and watching their imaginations take flight.

Only, here she stood, making sheep eyes at Patrick Rivers instead of getting ready for her role as Mother Goose. Talk about pathetic. Why couldn’t she let go of this silly infatuation with the man?

Maybe she should see Jocelyn as a patient instead of for coffee.

“So Loomis still has that stupid pageant?” There was no disguising the smirk in his voice.

She bristled in defense of the town. “It’s a tremendous honor to win Mother of the Year. There’s been a lot of talk about canceling it because of all that’s happened, but I hope they don’t.”

“I remember the pageant as a battle for bragging rights between the Renaults and the Pershings. Has that changed?”

Ducking her head, she acknowledged he was right. “Not as much as some might like, but this year Ava Renault and Max Pershing are both working on the committee. They’ll see that it’s kept fair and square.”




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