311 Pelican Court. Debbie Macomber
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tears filled her eyes and she had to turn away before she embarrassed them both.
Through sheer force of will, Rosie managed to hold on to her composure. While she talked to several other parents, Bruce lingered; Jolene showed him her desk and led him to the play area at the back of the room.
By eight o’clock, just a few parents and children remained. Rosie carried the empty punch bowl and cookie plate to the cafeteria kitchen, and when she returned, Bruce and Jolene were the only two left.
“If Jolene needs extra help with her reading or spelling, please let me know,” he said.
“I’ll be happy to,” Rosie assured him. “It was nice meeting you.”
“You, too.” He reached for his little girl’s hand, then hesitated. His gaze briefly sought hers. “I’m sorry about your divorce.”
Rosie looked down and nodded. “I…am, too.”
He left after that, and not a moment too soon. Once again Rosie found herself blinking back tears.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. To all outward appearances, Zach was having the time of his life. When Allison and Eddie were with him they cooked together; the three of them got along famously. It didn’t work that way on the nights Rosie spent with her children. Allison and Eddie bickered incessantly and her teenage daughter challenged Rosie’s authority at every turn. She’d clearly taken Zach’s side in the divorce.
Feet dragging, Rosie entered the small apartment she shared with Zach. He was with the children this evening, and she doubted Eddie had made a fuss at bedtime. Those bouts of temper were reserved for the nights Rosie spent with the children. Allison had probably volunteered to wash the dinner dishes. Rosie had given up asking her daughter to perform even the most routine household tasks. It just wasn’t worth the argument.
Oh, yes, she was a real catch, Rosie thought wryly. She was a recent divorcée with two rebellious children. It wouldn’t be long before dozens of eager men lined up at the door, all eager to date her.
Yeah, sure!
Seven
As a Seattle police detective, Roy McAfee had always had a hard time letting go of a case, no matter how cold. That hadn’t changed, although he was now retired and living in Cedar Cove, where he’d become a private investigator. His dogged determination served him well in his new job. He liked his work, liked the diversity of cases that came across his desk. He was good at what he did, and he knew it. Roy had discovered through his years of police work that if he was patient enough and lucky, he eventually discovered what he needed to know. However, things didn’t always turn out exactly the way he expected.
The disappearance of Dan Sherman was a prime example of that.
Grace had come to him shortly after her husband had disappeared. She was a strong woman. In his experience as a private detective, Roy had been hired by several women looking for answers regarding their husbands’ activities or whereabouts. Twice he’d been asked to track down errant spouses. In one case, he’d started the investigation on a missing husband and had only gotten a week into the search when his client told him to quit looking. She’d claimed that in retrospect she was better off without the bastard. She didn’t want to know where the hell he was. If he’d taken off with another woman, as she suspected, then the other woman was welcome to him.
From the little bit he’d learned about the missing husband, Roy figured his client had made a good choice.
It surprised him that Grace Sherman had contacted him again. Dan had been found, dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound, and laid to rest. Roy assumed the case was closed. She had the answers she needed, but not necessarily the ones she wanted.
He heard the outside door open and glanced at the small clock on the corner of his desk. Twenty-five after twelve. A minute later Corrie, his wife and business manager, stepped into his office.
“Grace Sherman is here for her twelve-thirty appointment.”
She ushered Grace into the room. Corrie’s eyes met his, and she shrugged as though to say she was as much in the dark about this meeting as he was.
“Have a seat,” Roy said, gesturing to the upholstered chair across from his desk.
“Would you care for a cup of coffee?” Corrie asked.
Grace declined, and Corrie left, closing the door behind her.
“What can I do for you?” Roy began. He leaned back in his chair and waited.
Grace held her purse in her lap, her hands nervously gripping the clasp. “I came because I wasn’t sure where else to turn,” she said, gazing down at the floor. “It has to do with Dan.”
“Unfinished business?”
She nodded. “Before he—before he killed himself, he wrote me a letter. Sheriff Davis gave it to me.” She opened her purse. “The letter has some…information and I don’t know what to do with it.”
Roy didn’t remember hearing anything about a letter. “What kind of information?”
Grace reached inside her purse for the envelope and handed it across the desk to Roy. “No one else has read this. Not even my daughters.”
“What about Sheriff Davis?” Roy asked.
“I…I think he might’ve started reading it and then realized it was personal, and out of respect for Dan and me, he…” She paused, then shook her head. “I don’t know if he read it or not. I doubt it.”
Roy slid the letter out of the envelope. The writing in the first few lines was even and precise, as though Dan had carefully considered each word. Halfway down the second page the writing grew large, slanting downward. At the bottom, where Dan had signed his name, it was barely legible.
Roy turned back to the first page and began to read. Dan Sherman apologized to his wife for killing himself, and for the hell he’d put her through during their marriage.
Then Dan relayed the details of an incident that had happened in Vietnam when he’d walked into a village and killed a woman and her child. He’d mowed them down with bullets, murdered them out of instinctive fear. In the desperation of a young man willing to do anything to get out of the war alive, he’d killed innocents. Others had, too. How many had died in the village that day might never be known.
When he’d finished, Roy looked up and discovered Grace staring into the distance. She was pale but seemed composed.
“Dan was never the same after he came back from the war,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Now I know why.”
“It was a long time ago,” Roy said reassuringly. Regret tightened his chest. He’d been a nineteen-year-old kid when he’d arrived in Vietnam. Thankfully he’d never been faced with the kind of situation Dan Sherman had found himself in.
Dan hadn’t indicated the number of people killed, but it appeared to have been a free-for-all. “The shooting just never seemed to stop,” he’d written. He’d lived with that guilt all these years. Sometime back, Roy remembered reading that as many Vietnam vets had died by their own hand in the years that followed as were lost in the war. The causes were varied, although plainly it was guilt that had driven Dan to such drastic action.
“Was this incident ever reported?” he asked.
“Reported?” Grace repeated. “That I wouldn’t know, but I doubt it.”
“What would you like me to do?”
“That’s just it. I…I don’t know what should be done with this information.” She studied him, clearly hoping he’d offer a solution. He had none to give her.
“Should I hand the letter over to the army brass and let them deal with it?” she asked.
He didn’t respond, merely raising one shoulder in a shrug.
“Or should I