Silver River Secrets. Linda Hope Lee
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Gram’s tone sounded more matter-of-fact than surprised.
“Yes. Do you know who could be responsible?”
Gram kept her gaze on her teacup. “Does it matter?”
“Yes, it does. You know something. Come on, tell me.” Lacey leaned forward.
“Well...maybe the person was Claire Roche. Hank and Lena Nellon’s daughter.”
“Of Nellon’s Hardware?”
Gram nodded.
“Why would she leave flowers?”
Gram bit her lower lip and looked off toward the mountains.
“Gram—”
Placing her teacup on the wrought-iron table, Gram folded her arms. “Oh, all right,” she said in a grudging tone. “She liked Rick. He was a frequent customer at the store when she worked there. She was separated from her husband, Clint, at the time.”
“But Dad wouldn’t—”
Gram set her jaw. “You don’t know what your father would do. He was a murderer, wasn’t he?”
Lacy flinched. Her first impulse was to fling back, “No, he wasn’t!” Instead, she took a deep breath and said calmly, “Why didn’t this come out at the trial?”
“Why should it have? Claire’s crush had nothing to do with Rick shooting Al Jr.”
“Is Claire still in town?”
“Oh, yes. She and Clint got back together.” Gram shook a finger at Lacey. “But don’t you go asking her about the flowers. What does it matter who put them on the graves? That doesn’t change the fact that your father was a murderer, and if it hadn’t been for his crime, your mother would be alive today.”
“No, Gram, he wasn’t a murderer.”
“Oh, you always say that. You have no proof.”
Yes, she needed proof. But how to obtain that was still a mystery.
And yet, as she washed and dried their teacups in the apartment’s kitchenette, she thought about what Gram had said about Claire having a crush on her father. Had he returned her affection? She’d always thought her father was devoted to her mother, but maybe that hadn’t been the case. Even so, did that make him a murderer?
LACEY UNLOCKED THE door to Gram’s old apartment and stepped inside. Having been vacant several weeks, the apartment’s air was hot and stale. She strolled through the rooms, bare of furniture except for a sofa, a couple of overstuffed chairs and a few end tables. Those items could be sold to the town’s used furniture store or donated to the thrift store. She would deal with them another day. Today, her task was to clean out the basement storage unit.
She took the elevator to the basement and located Remy’s locker. Cardboard boxes were stacked from the floor nearly to the ceiling. Lacey sighed. Chances were, very little of the boxes’ contents could be kept. Gram’s Riverview apartment was nearly full now, and although the building had basement storage as well, that space was much smaller than this one.
A peek in one box revealed a set of dishes with a pink rose pattern. Gram’s “company dishes,” brought out when they had guests for dinner and sat at the farmhouse’s dining room table under the crystal chandelier.
She’d bet they hadn’t been used since Remy moved out of the farmhouse, and that would have been right after the murder. Unable to bear living in the house where the crime had occurred, she and Lacey moved into this apartment. Lacey had soon graduated high school and had gone off to college in Boise, where she’d stayed. She hated leaving Gram alone, but Cousin Bessie and her family were nearby, and so she knew Gram would have someone to look after her. Plus, she made periodic trips to Silver River to visit.
Even though Gram hadn’t used the dishes for years and probably had no plans to use them now, she wouldn’t want to give them up. Gram hung on to her possessions. The empty farmhouse was a prime example.
Retrieving a hand truck from the hallway, Lacey loaded it with several boxes. She wheeled them out the basement’s back door to the parking lot, where she’d parked her car.
The Camaro’s top was down. She opened the trunk and stacked the boxes inside, and then returned for another load. These she put in the backseat. The last box was heavier than she expected, and it slipped from her hands and fell to the ground. The top burst open, and the contents tumbled out. A trinket dish made of pink glass broke into several pieces. Oh, oh, Gram wouldn’t like any of her treasures damaged.
Lacey retrieved a plastic bag from her car’s glove box. As she gathered up the pieces, she realized the dish belonged not to Gram but to Mom. She’d seen it on the dresser in her parents’ bedroom. Examination of the rest of the box’s contents revealed they were her mother’s, as well. Included were several more trinket dishes, a blue silk scarf, a pair of black high-heeled shoes, a long black skirt and a frilly white blouse, and a scattering of books.
One book, which had a picture of pansies on the cover, caught Lacey’s eye. She had often seen her mother writing in it.
What are you writing? she once asked. Poetry?
Her mother smiled. Some. Mostly, I just...write.
Lacey picked up the book and ran her fingers over the pansies on the cover. Now, she could find out for herself what her mother had written. She opened the cover and idly flipped the pages. Yes, there was some poetry, but other pages with dated entries appeared to be a journal.
Excitement rippled down Lacey’s spine. Perhaps her mother had written on the days leading up to the murder and her own death. Maybe she’d recorded something on that very day.
Lacey turned more of the pages but then stopped and closed the book. She’d wait until later, when she had time and privacy. Now, she must finish the task at hand.
Should she replace the journal in the box or put it aside? She and Gram planned to go through everything, and she would surely notice if the book were missing.
Lacey didn’t want to go behind her grandmother’s back, but what if Gram forbade her to read the journal? She stood there clutching the book and debating what to do.
* * *
RORY DROVE ALONG Park Street on his way to work at his auto repair shop. Ordinarily, he’d take Main Street, but today he drove down Park Street so that he could stop by Alice Helmer’s. He’d put a new battery in her Chevy last week and wanted to make sure it was running well. When he arrived at Alice’s, he found no one at home. Her car was gone, too, which answered his question.
As he rounded a corner, he saw the Towne Apartments and recalled that was where Remy Whitfield had lived before moving to Riverview. A familiar white Camaro convertible sat in the parking lot. Lacey’s car. And there was Lacey, too, standing by a broken cardboard box and a scattering of the contents.
He pulled into the lot and lowered the window. “Need some help?”
She looked up from the book she’d been studying. “Rory!”
“On my way to the shop. Saw you and thought you might need some help.” He nodded at the broken box and the scattered items.
She closed the book and laid it on her car’s front seat. “I’m cleaning out Gram’s storage unit.”
“I figured.” He cut the engine and stepped from the car. Approaching the box, he knelt to examine it. The flaps and one side were torn. “I have some tape in my car. I’ll fix this for you.”
She put out a hand. “Thanks, but you don’t have to. I can—”
“I know I don’t. But I’m betting