Deadly Cover-Up. Julie Anne Lindsey
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two of them were doing just fine on their own.
She smiled and returned her eyes to the road ahead. Flyers for the county fair waved and rippled on passing telephone poles, stapled beside missing pet posters and garage sale signs.
A half heartbeat later, her thoughts swept back to the shirtless man making her breakfast. Surely that wasn’t part of his contract.
The gentle hum of an approaching engine edged into Violet’s thoughts, erasing the memory of Wyatt seated beside Maggie at the breakfast table. The sound grew steadily louder, and Violet searched in every direction for the source of the aggressive hum.
Her little hatchback hugged the next curve, dropping low over a hill and into a valley just two miles from the county hospital. She forced her attention back to the road, but her roaming eyes returned to the rearview mirror with a snap.
A battered blue-and-white demolition derby car roared earsplittingly into view behind her as she crested the next hill.
Maggie’s car seat rocked in frustration.
“Thanks a lot,” Violet muttered at the mangled car racing closer in her rearview. She removed her foot from the gas to let the lunatic pass before they reached the next uphill curve and crashed. Violet’s current speed was nearly fifty in a forty-five, and the sharp sway ahead was marked as fifteen miles per hour.
The wrecked car revved closer with an ominous growl. This time, the driver laid on the horn.
Beep!
The seemingly endless blast sent Violet’s heart rate into a sprint. She stuck her hand out the window and waved the guy to go around.
He didn’t.
Instead, the attacking car roared closer until its entire front end was invisible in her mirror. Beeeep! Beeeep!
Maggie stirred, then began to wail at the continued horn blasts and growling engine.
Violet returned her foot to the gas pedal, pressing a little harder than necessary in an effort to put space between the other vehicle and herself. “Sh-sh-sh,” she hushed Maggie, hoping to return her to a gentle sleep.
Maybe she could drive the speed limit as far as the next turnoff, then get away from the road-rager behind her. Or maybe he’d just pass her and move on when she used her signal.
Violet sipped oxygen and concentrated on the narrow two-lane road ahead.
The offending car dropped back a few inches, then charged forward once more, its hood half disappearing in the rearview.
Violet pressed the gas pedal and prayed.
Her death grip on the steering wheel grew painful as her little hatchback floated over the asphalt with a psychopath on its tail. Her fingers were snow-white and sore from lack of circulation.
The fifteen-mile-per-hour curve was coming up fast, and Violet was losing faith in her plan. She had to be able to slow down to take the next turn or pull over, but the beast behind her wouldn’t allow it. She realized with a punch of fear through her chest that this could be the end. She could wreck her car with Maggie strapped helplessly in the back seat. The idea was almost too much for her to bear.
Maggie’s desperate wails echoed through Violet’s heart and ricocheted off the walls of her racing mind until her vision blurred with fear and regret. They were trapped.
Beep!
Violet watched in horror as the assailing car dropped back, then lurched forward one last time. The reduced-speed sign flew past them, and Violet jerked her wheel.
Her little hatchback careered off the side of the road moments before reaching the steep bend and went skidding through the grass and gravel of a tiny church lawn and empty parking lot.
Beside them, the little white church stood alone at the base of the perilous curve.
The demolition derby car barreled onward, flying into the curve at high speeds and squealing its tires and brakes for several long seconds before the dreaded engine noise faded into the distance.
Violet pulled her keys from the ignition, then climbed out on shaky legs and unlatched Maggie from her car seat. Together, they moved to the church steps and sat, embracing and crying for so long Violet thought someone might find them and wonder if she’d lost her mind.
Maybe she had.
Frighteningly, she and Maggie had nearly lost so much more.
Wyatt strode back into the blazing midday sun, adjusting his worn-out Stetson and squinting against the light. A trip to the local bar had proven equally as useless as all his other stops today. Wyatt had ordered a sweet tea for the sake of manners, then asked the motley lineup at the bar what they knew about Mrs. Ames. They’d all pointedly ignored him. Though it had been Wyatt’s experience that small-town folks were occasionally tight-lipped when it came to outsiders, he’d usually had great luck with the men drinking their way through daylight. Local bars were the male equivalent of a beauty parlor for gossip and hearsay. Except not here. The handful of men who had bellied up to a beer and a shot glass at this bar had officially broken the mold. And just like the local diner, hardware store, mechanic and barber, no one had any news to share about Mrs. Ames.
Wyatt took his leave of yet another uncooperative group and headed back onto the street. He spun his key ring around one finger and took a long look in both directions. Where to next?
A sheriff’s cruiser slid against the curb before he’d had time to decide. The cruiser’s lights flashed. No siren. The man who climbed out was nearing fifty with narrow shoulders and a shiny star on his chest.
Wyatt tipped his hat and stepped aside, allowing the local sheriff room to pass on the narrow sidewalk. The town was a modern-day Rockwell portrait waiting to happen. So what had brought the sheriff and his flashers out? Wyatt paused, waiting to see where the local lawman would go. Had there been another “accident” like Mrs. Ames’s? Or perhaps the bar patrons had reanimated and grown rowdy in Wyatt’s absence.
The sheriff stopped in front of Wyatt and rested a palm on the butt of his sidearm. “Are you the stranger going door-to-door and making folks nervous?”
Wyatt glanced over his shoulder in search of a shady, bothersome guy.
No one was behind him. The sheriff was definitely talking to Wyatt.
“I don’t think so, sir,” Wyatt said. “I’ve been out enjoying your lovely town. Meeting folks. That’s all.”
The sheriff gave a long, assessing look. “Where did you come from?”
“Lexington,” Wyatt answered, this time returning the scrutiny. Irritated, he crossed his arms and widened his stance. “You been sheriff long?”
“Long enough.”
Wyatt smiled. “Someone reported me for being friendly?” He’d love to know who, but didn’t have to ask to know the sheriff wasn’t telling. Too bad, because whoever had made the complaint might also be the one with something to hide. A recent B and E for example, or maybe an assault on an old lady. “Is that a crime in this town?” Wyatt had spoken to a dozen locals, but he’d been careful not to ask anything too pointed. He’d asked if anyone knew Mrs. Ames, if they’d heard about her fall, and where he might get a good locksmith after the break-in. He’d already changed the locks, of course, but he’d hoped to read folks’ expressions. See who was shocked by the news of a burglary and who already knew. Problem was that no one had paid any attention to him at all.
The sheriff sucked his teeth and grimaced. His stance was rigid, defiant, not at all welcoming or pleasantly confident. Wyatt pegged him for a bully. “What business brings you to River Gorge?”
“I’m visiting.”