The Whispered Word

by Ellery Adams

  Nora left them to examine Spark Joy: An Illustrated Master Class on the Art of Organizing and Tidying Up by Marie Kondo; Lisa Jewell’s The House We Grew Up In; The Little Book of Hygge: Danish Secrets to Happy Living by Meik Wiking; and Coming Clean by Kimberly Rae Miller. The list was a mixture of hardship and hope. Pain and renewal. It would serve as a recurring reminder that, though the past colors our present, it doesn’t have to dictate the future. Love and faith can change one’s course forever. And that’s what Nora wished for Monroe and Laurie.

  The couple bought all the books and promised to send Nora a postcard a few months down the road informing her of their progress.

  Nora told them that she’d like that very much.

  The couple left, holding the door for another customer on their way out.

  From then on, a steady flow of customers kept Nora occupied until closing time.

  When she finally locked up, she was glad that Sheriff McCabe had suggested they grab a bite to eat. Nora’s lunch, a turkey sandwich and Honeycrisp apple, felt like a distant memory.

  “Hungry?” the sheriff asked as he opened his passenger door for Nora.

  “Famished,” she said.

  McCabe nodded in approval. “Good. I’d feel like a prize pig destroying a big platter of baby back ribs if you just ordered a side salad.”

  “Are we going to a barbecue place?” Nora tried to hide her disappointment. She’d never been a fan of North Carolina barbecue, but was wise enough not to voice her opinion aloud. Disliking barbecue was a sin in these parts.

  “Not exactly. The place I have in mind is famous for their chicken and waffles,” the sheriff said. “I’ve had a hankering for them lately. I even asked Jack to add them to the Pink Lady’s menu, but he said he doesn’t believe breakfast and supper foods should mix. You ever tried chicken and waffles?”

  Nora said that she hadn’t.

  “You’re in for a treat. And since we’ll be in the car for a bit, do you want to clue me in on what it is you think might be relevant to my cases?”

  This was not a suggestion but a polite command, and Nora realized she hadn’t given McCabe enough credit. He was shrewd and intuitive. Deputy Andrews had undoubtedly told his boss everything Nora had previously shared, which was to be expected, and now he wanted to hear what she hadn’t shared. Nora suddenly felt guilty for having waited so long to speak directly to the sheriff.

  “I didn’t know much until last night,” she said they drove out of town. “Which is when I learned that a young woman, a newcomer to Miracle Springs, was probably the last person to see Amanda Frye alive.”

  If this news shocked the sheriff, he didn’t show it. He kept his hands at two and ten and his eyes on the road. “Are you referring to Ms. Abilene Tyler? The young woman working at the Gingerbread House?”

  Nora was impressed. McCabe certainly kept his ear to the ground. “Yes, but Abilene Tyler isn’t her real name. It’s not for me to spill all the secrets Abilene shared. I’m only going to tell you information relating to Amanda’s death.”

  McCabe’s brow creased and he seemed to be weighing how much leeway to give Nora. In the end, he simply said, “Go on.”

  “Would you answer one question first? Did Amanda Frye leave her book collection to a man called Ezekiel Crane?”

  McCabe failed to mask his astonishment. “How did you know that? Only certain members of my department and two lawyers were given his name.”

  Nora spent the rest of the drive telling McCabe an abbreviated version of Abilene’s tragic history.

  “It was really hard for her to talk about these things,” Nora said when she was done. “She was with a group of four women who’ve been trying to help since she got to town. I’m not trying to tell you how to do your job, but if you interview her now, she’ll shut down. She’s terrified, Sheriff.”

  McCabe pulled in to a ramshackle building that looked more like an abandoned auto garage than a restaurant. The sign above the door read, PEARL’S.

  There were no posted hours, no sign indicating that the eatery was open or closed, and no outdoor décor whatsoever—not even a potted plant or a bench.

  Nora was tempted to ask the sheriff if he’d made a wrong turn, but he turned off the engine and asked, “Is Ms. Tyler in a safe place?”

  “I don’t know.” Nora described Abilene’s apartment. She liked that McCabe focused on Abilene’s welfare first and the case, second. After all, he was a man under pressure. He was an interim sheriff filling a pair of shoes left open by a corrupt predecessor. Almost immediately after taking the job, McCabe had had to deal with Amanda Frye’s sudden death. Days later, he was faced with her son’s fatal fall. Two suspicious deaths were a heavy weight for any small-town sheriff to shoulder, let alone one who’d barely had time to learn street names.

  McCabe gestured at the building in front of them. “Let’s go in. We can keep talking over a basket of homemade sweet potato chips.”

  Nora’s stomach issued an audible rumble and the sheriff smiled.

  When he opened the restaurant door, the boisterous strains of a jazz saxophone and a cloud of fried-chicken-scented air floated out from inside to greet them.

  “How’d you hear about this place?” Nora asked. “I’ve lived two towns over for years and never knew it existed.”

  “I stopped here on my way to my new job,” McCabe said. “I come back every chance I get. Pearl is the sweetest lady on earth. And her husband? The guy’s always laughing. He’s the happiest man I’ve ever seen. If I’ve had a bad day, he can make me forget about it.”

  From the inside, it was clear that the building had once been a garage. The lifts were gone, the floor was smooth gray concrete, and the garage bays were filled with round tables instead of cars. String lights with old-timey bare bulbs were strung across the high ceiling. The bar area was actually a VW bus without a roof or windows. Nora thought it was one of the coolest things she’d ever seen.

  The sheriff pointed at the bartender, who had the physique of a linebacker and skin the color of dark roast coffee.

  “That’s Samuel, Pearl’s husband,” McCabe said.

  Samuel spotted the sheriff and waved. As he waved, a smile lit his entire face. In fact, the man seemed to shine in the dim light, as if his smile electrified the space around him.

  “You just can’t get enough soul food, can you, Sheriff?” the woman behind the podium teased McCabe as she showed them to a table.

  “No, ma’am. I dream about Pearl’s chicken and waffles,” McCabe said.

  “I’ll tell her to get started on your sweet potato chips. This your first time, sugar?” the hostess asked Nora. Without giving Nora a chance to reply, she said, “I’ll have Pearl whip up some buttermilk hush puppies for you. You’ve never had a hush puppy ’til you’ve had Pearl’s.”

  Nora and the sheriff made quick work of the sweet potato chips and hush puppies. They placed their entrée orders—chicken and waffles for the sheriff and shrimp and grits for Nora—and Pearl delivered the food in person. She served their entrées, as well as side dishes of collard greens and black-eyed peas. Before leaving them to their meals, she warned them to eat their vegetables or she’d call their mamas and snitch on them.

  Pearl was as small as her husband was large. She wore fake eyelashes, feather earrings that brushed her shoulders, and glittery pink eyeshadow. Her food was like her husband—full of merriment. Every bite was as uplifting as spring sunshine after a long and bitter winter.

  McCabe, who’d decided to curtail talk of the investigation until after they’d sampled their meals, dug into his food with gusto.

  “You sure I can’t coerce you into trying this?” he asked Nora. When she demurred, he said, “Most people think this is a Southern dish, but it actually had its start north of the Mason-Dixon Line. Unlike their Southern brethren, African Americans living in the North could afford chicken. Waffles, on the other hand, were a real treat. Flapjacks were much more common, so what I’m eating was once a delicacy. T
o me, it still tastes like one.”

  Nora was intrigued by McCabe’s culinary knowledge. “Do you know the origin of my meal?”

  The sheriff laughed and Nora realized that Grant McCabe was a good-looking man. He was older than Jed by a decade and didn’t exude raw sex appeal as Jed did, but McCabe’s intelligent, walnut-brown eyes and rugged face held plenty of allure. Nora hadn’t seen him in this light because she’d viewed him strictly as a man in uniform. As the guy in charge. But right now, he wasn’t a lawman. He was just a man sitting across the table from a woman.

  “My guess is that grits were originally a Native American food. But putting them with shrimp? I have no idea who came up with that. If shrimp and grits is your thing, you should try them Cajun style. That’s how they’re served in Nawlins.” He pronounced the city with an exaggerated Louisiana drawl.

  Nora didn’t know whether it was the beer, the food, or the setting that had put McCabe in a playful mood, but she liked it.

  They finished their meals and the server asked if they’d saved room for dessert. Despite their claims that they hadn’t, Pearl insisted on making an order of her homemade peach pie to split.

  While they waited on the pie, McCabe said, “Much as I’d rather not drag work into this setting, we should circle back to what we were talking about in the car. I’m going to look into Ezekiel Crane. I don’t like the thought of him sneaking up on Ms. Tyler.” He cocked his head. “Was she hospitalized because of him?”

  “She didn’t get into that with us, but it’s a logical assumption,” Nora said. She pointed at her chest. “My turn to ask a question.”

  The sheriff spread his hands. “Fire away.”

  “Was Kenneth Frye pushed or did he fall?”

  “We don’t have enough information to make that ruling yet,” McCabe answered. His expression, like his voice, betrayed nothing.

  “Was he drunk?” Nora persisted.

  McCabe nodded.

  “A mother overdosing on painkillers and a son falling from a tree house cabin.” Nora shook her head. “Two deaths in such proximity? They can’t be accidental.”

  At that inopportune moment, Pearl arrived with a large wedge of peach pie topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. She placed two forks and a pile of napkins on the table. “This will light you up like Christmas,” she said before returning to the kitchen.

  Pearl wasn’t exaggerating. The piecrust was flaky and crisp, and the filling tasted of summer. The pie warmed Nora to the core. Though she could manage only a few bites, they were enough to convince her that Pearl possessed the same magical cooking ability as Hester. Both women knew how to transform food into something transcendent. Their creations provided not only nourishment to the body, but to the hungry parts of the soul as well.

  “That’s why they call it soul food,” McCabe said as if Nora had spoken aloud. He finished his glass of water and signaled for the check. “Andrews tells me that you believe there’s a connection between the two deaths and Amanda Frye’s book collection. Why?”

  “I can’t say for certain because I haven’t seen the entire collection,” Nora said. “But those books are the only things that might provide a motive. There must be something about one of the books, or something tucked inside one of them, wanted by the person Kenneth shouted at during the festival. That person may have killed Kenneth to keep him from finding it.”

  The bill came and the sheriff insisted on paying. When Nora started to protest, he said, “It’s not often that I get the chance to share a meal with such an extraordinary woman. Allow me to treat you.”

  Surprised by the compliment, Nora thanked him for introducing her to Pearl’s. “I’ll have to call you if I want to come back,” she joked. “It would take me all day to ride my bike here.”

  “Well, that gives me something to look forward to,” McCabe said. He paid the server with cash and picked up his hat. He didn’t put it on, but held it in his hands while studying Nora. She had the feeling he was coming to an important decision.

  “Ms. Pennington.” He’d switched back to his lawman voice. “Would you examine Mrs. Frye’s book collection? Your expertise might just prove invaluable.”

  Nora felt excitement surge through her body. It was the same rush she experienced when finding a valuable book at a yard sale or completing a successful bibliotherapy session. She was already on a high from Pearl’s excellent food. Now, to cap it all off, she was being asked to examine Amanda’s books.

  “I can do it first thing in the morning,” she said, trying to suppress a grin. “On one condition.”

  The sheriff arched his brows. “Which is?”

  “You call me Nora from now on. At least, when it’s just the two of us. Seeing as we shared a pie, I think it’s fitting.”

  McCabe smiled. “All right, then. Are you ready to go? Nora?”

  Chapter 14

  The greater part of the truth is always hidden . . .

  —J. R. R. Tolkien

  Nora approached Amanda Frye’s book collection with a mixture of anxiety and reverence. If a clue wasn’t hidden among the books, Nora might never know what they had to do with the unexpected deaths of a mother and son.

  She stared at the plastic-wrapped spines in their crate displays. To her, it seemed impossible for such beloved books to be connected to such dark deeds. But she knew better. Anything was possible.

  Nora readjusted the gloves Sheriff McCabe had given her right before he’d unlocked Amanda’s house.

  She didn’t like gloves.

  Many people were surprised by this fact. After all, she could easily conceal her disfigured right hand by slipping on a glove, which is precisely why she didn’t. Gloves reminded her of the times she’d tried to hide her scars. Once, she’d worn only long-sleeved shirts paired with light scarves and wide-brimmed hats. And gloves. She’d had cotton, lace, and leather gloves. They all made her hands sweat. Which made her skin itch. She also hadn’t liked how the top half of the pinkie finger would droop with certain gloves. This wet noodle effect made her feel even more freakish.

  After a year of hiding, she decided to let everyone see her as she was. She donated her gloves to a charity thrift store.

  McCabe waited until the gloves he’d given her were snugly in place. He then asked Nora if she’d catalogue each book after examining it.

  “I’d like an estimate of the entire collection’s worth,” he told her. “It doesn’t have to be a formal appraisal. I just want to know if these books could be a motive for murder.”

  Nora and McCabe were standing in front of Amanda’s makeshift bookcases. The house smelled of rot. Mold, damp wood, and stale air had infested every niche and corner. The sheriff left Nora to her work and walked through the house, opening windows. Nora was grateful for the influx of a grass-scented breeze.

  She took out a notebook and began to search for and catalog the Catherine Cookson novels. In addition to taking down copyright information, Nora added brief notes on the condition of each book. She also carefully fanned the book pages, hoping to discover a letter or photograph that would answer all the questions Amanda’s death had raised.

  She’d just started on Cornelia Funke’s Inkheart series when the sheriff received a phone call. Excusing himself, he moved into the kitchen to take the call. Nora heard phrases like “we should expand our hotel search” and “be sure to check with rental car companies” and knew McCabe was referring to Ezekiel Crane. From the sound of it, the sheriff’s department had yet to locate him.

  When McCabe suggested that they also speak with the businesses neighboring Crane’s shop, Nora’s suspicion was confirmed.

  The sheriff returned to the living room to find Nora gazing into the middle distance.

  “Are the books bringing back memories?” he asked.

  She gave him a self-conscious smile. “They usually do, but not this time. After listening to Abilene’s story, it seems unlikely that Crane could have come to Miracle Springs and left her in peace for this long. I mea
n, he must be furious with her. He had to close his business to hunt for her. His anger must have grown with every day she was gone.”

  “He has to be careful though,” the sheriff said. “He can’t be seen approaching her. Especially not in a public place.”

  “Because her freedom means the end of his freedom. If she were to tell anyone—a member of law enforcement, a health care practitioner, a social worker—what that man did to her, he’d be ruined.”

  Sensing that Nora hadn’t completed her train of thought, Sheriff McCabe didn’t reply. He quietly waited for her to go on.

  “After listening to Abilene, it’s clear that impulse control isn’t one of Ezekiel Crane’s strong points. Which makes me wonder about his lack of action. Why hasn’t he gone after Abilene when she’s alone? Because of these?” Nora gestured at the books. “The collection would be his, in due time. Kenneth might have delayed the gift by contesting his mother’s will, but no judge would rule that Amanda wasn’t of sound mind and body when she had it made. Unless she altered it prior to her supposed suicide, that is.”

  “Mrs. Frye’s will hasn’t been altered for decades,” McCabe said. “She and her husband wrote their wills together when their son was still a boy. They both left everything to him, with the exception of Mrs. Frye’s book collection. She left that to Ezekiel Crane.”

  “Amanda must have done that because she still cared about him on some level” Nora said. “She left her books to the only person she knew who’d appreciate their true worth.”

  Nora turned back to the books. They had to hold the answers.

  Reaching for Dean Koontz’s Odd Thomas, Nora wondered if her viewpoint was colored because of her unwavering love of books.