Trace of Doubt

by DiAnn Mills

  “Maybe you should check your road map. This is what I know. Three months ago, my parole date was announced as well as my relocation plans. You slither into one of Edie’s cabins, set yourself up as a good neighbor, and devise ways to convince me you’re a great guy. You used a puppy to win my friendship. Rather low, don’t you think? How stupid do you think I am?”

  My cheeks burned along with my gut. “Apparently I misjudged your intelligence.”

  Shelby folded her arms over her chest. “I neglected to mention my compliments to your family’s dedication to preserving the law. A dad and two brothers viewed as superhero police officers. And to think you broke the mold to enter the FBI. Impressive.”

  A female server delivered our food, but my appetite had vanished.

  “Miss.” Shelby focused on the server with an extra dose of sweetness. “I’d like my order boxed to go, and I’ll take the check for my meal.”

  I raised my palm at Shelby. “This is my bill.”

  She stood. “No thanks. I neither need your deceit nor a handout. But I’m keeping Joy. I hate the thought of returning her to you.”

  The server set my plate before me and disappeared.

  “I can take you home,” I said.

  “Not necessary, Agent McClure. I’ll relieve you of Officer Hughes’s bicycle from your truck bed and be on my way. The day’s beautiful, and I plan to sort through information about my FBI neighbor.” She slipped a denim purse onto her shoulder. “Question, have you stalked me and broken into my home?”

  How should I answer?

  “Never mind. You already did. The threatening phones calls had better stop too. Breaking the law for a stellar résumé might land you behind bars. Now how ironic would that be?”

  18

  SHELBY

  Truth could hurt worse than a smack in the face. I knew Denton’s identity before I’d confronted him, and still I toggled between anger and disappointment. Why would I confess to a murder and accept the consequences that could have ended my life and lie about a theft?

  I pedaled faster. This morning in church when the older man had complained about my presence in the community, I tried to bolt. Amy-Jo grabbed my hand and held it in a viselike grip, forcing me to endure the humiliating torment as though she knew my instinct was to flee. But when I finally shook her loose and chose to address the church, peace flooded my whole being.

  On the other hand, Amy-Jo claimed this was the first time she’d attended church in years, but Edie had asked her to sit with me. From what she’d seen from the mouthy old man, Amy-Jo would be accompanying me in the future as my personal bodyguard. At times, I wondered about her crusty ways. Maybe like me, she came from a troubled past.

  Pastor Emory’s message about loving our enemies was aimed at me. Why not title the message “Shelby Pearce is not your enemy. Just love her and everything will be okay”?

  I wish. Anxiety reached out to consume me. If I wasn’t careful, I’d slip into paralyzing depression. My release from prison and my hope of a better future needed more than over-the-top encouragement on the part of the pastor. Surely his faith hadn’t overshadowed the reality of having a convicted felon in the midst of his congregation.

  I had met Mrs. Emory today, and she appeared not exactly friendly but cordial. She might have objected to her husband’s donation to my jewelry business, or maybe the tension about my arrival had moved him not to tell her. How many problems had I caused? Amy-Jo’s business seemed incredibly busy, but my observations were before the newspaper article.

  Leave it alone.

  I was overthinking, overreacting, not weighing the facts, and leaving God out of the picture. Besides, I suspected who’d instigated the problems—Officer Hughes or Special Agent McClure.

  But bitterness only served to harden hearts and build impregnable walls. The people of Valleysburg needed time to accept me just like I needed time to work through many of their glares and remarks. No wonder unforgiveness stopped so many people from ever finding peace. I struggled with forgiving those who’d wronged me . . . even Marissa, who’d shed tears of gratitude when I stepped forward to take the blame for Travis’s death.

  I was determined to find beauty in small things.

  Good things had happened this week—new friendships, an enjoyable job, an unexpected furry companion, and an opportunity to sell my jewelry glistened like precious gems and stones.

  A patch of wild daises leaning against a rickety, wooden fence caught my attention. They nodded in the gentle spring breeze as though encouraging me to stay strong and avoid taking matters personally. Nature . . . I loved it so.

  The hum of an approaching vehicle caused me to veer onto the grassy shoulder. I glanced behind me to make sure it wasn’t a black pickup. Great . . . Denton had chased me down. But my sights aimed toward home, and I had no inclination to endure whatever his excuse for bending the law in his behalf.

  The hot truck engine breathed on me, and Denton slowed. The low whish of the power window reinforced his resolve to get my attention. “Shelby, can we talk?”

  Seriously? My stomach craved the lunch nestled in Styrofoam, and irritation pelted me. Neither was decent company.

  “Let me take you home.”

  I pedaled faster.

  “I want to hear your side of the story.”

  How long could I continue biting my tongue? He’d lied to me from the moment he introduced himself as the great guy who lived close by. Denton McClure had much to learn from Mr. Rogers about being a good neighbor.

  “Whose idea was it to call me with a shove toward suicide?”

  “I haven’t made any calls to you.”

  “Right. That’s low, don’t you think? Or do you just break and enter?”

  “I’d like to explain. I want to believe in your innocence. Can you prove to me you know nothing about the stolen money?”

  His plea sounded like a whining boy instead of an immature, annoying grown man.

  Every crack and stone in the road caught my attention—anything to keep my mind occupied.

  “Shelby?”

  “You have all the evidence pointing to my innocence. End of discussion.”

  He gunned his engine and passed me, spitting a fog of dust and dirt. Once he disappeared, I released the tension in my knotted shoulders.

  At the cabin, I scanned the area for signs of unwanted company. The rocks I’d placed on the steps hadn’t been kicked aside, and the folded piece of paper stuck between the threshold and door hadn’t been moved. Satisfied my privacy hadn’t been invaded, I chained the bicycle to the front porch, stepped inside with my lunch, and locked the door behind me. I loved on Joy while each room received a thorough inspection.

  I’d worried about my puppy while I was gone. Doubtful the person threatening me would spare my sweet pet. Even Denton wouldn’t stoop to such degradation. Officer Hughes? He leaned toward the do-anything mode.

  Years had gone by since I was emotional about my own stupid actions. Whoever claimed tears were cathartic hadn’t ever been this angry . . . and hurt. I thought I’d hardened to manipulation. Prison tutored the innocent in ways that strengthened or destroyed the human spirit. Those were life skills, not just prison skills. But a part of me wanted to give those on the outside of a locked cell the benefit of the doubt. Officer Hughes had already proved me wrong, and Denton did the same. Why had his admittance to what I’d already discovered cut so deeply? Had I fallen prey to his hypnotic brown eyes and the confidence in his walk?

  I’d liked Denton McClure. Past tense.

  Shame on me.

  19

  DENTON

  I spent the next eight hours rereading every post and article online about Shelby. Some I’d memorized. Some scratched at my gut . . . like Travis Stover killed at close range. The blood spatters on Shelby’s and Marissa Stover’s clothes. I reviewed photos and videos in which Shelby displayed no apparent remorse. Her impassiveness matched a coldhearted killer. I’d cut her ruthless image into my mind, despised
everything about her.

  Now I found myself attracted to a woman I thought I loathed. This afternoon, I had chased her down like a desperate man who longed to be understood. Hogwash, as my grandpa used to say. I glanced at the time—10:02 p.m. Popcorn and Coke had been my supper, and a headache plotted against me.

  What had I missed that confirmed Shelby’s guilt or pointed to her innocence? Her words poured into my thoughts. “You’ve wasted years of your life on a travesty.”

  Stretching my shoulders, I headed to the fridge for pimento cheese, bread, and butter. While I grilled a cheese sandwich in a cast-iron skillet, I headed back to my laptop to specifically study photos of Shelby and her family during the trial. Made sense to look for body language. Again. Much of the media had labeled her a psychopath, and I believed it too.

  Examining each photo took careful scrutiny until I smelled my grilled cheese burning. I yanked the skillet from the burner and scraped off the charred bits from the bottom. Sorta like how I felt if I’d wasted years of my life attempting to prove false charges.

  I ate the sandwich anyway while examining the photos. Near midnight, I zoomed in on Shelby staring at her family on the way out of the courtroom on the day the jury reached a verdict. Softened features indicated a twinge of regret. Possibly fear. Or unbelief. Her cuffed hands were a hindrance to reading some nonverbal communication, but her shoulders slumped over a gaunt body, and she sobbed.

  She’d shivered in the courtroom, as though her contemptible actions had hit her heart. The media used her tears to validate her guilt. TV and talk shows ran rampant exploiting teen crimes.

  Her prison records noted her severe depression, abuse from gangs, and a refusal to eat. The assessment changed after she became a Christian. Except the gang beatings continued.

  I headed for bed, but my restless thoughts churned like a whirlpool. Shelby’s intelligence helped her to achieve higher education, and I thought for too many years she’d planned the murder and the theft. Now my FBI instincts pushed me into uncertainty. What simmered beneath the surface? Why did someone want her dead? More importantly, who?

  I fought the turmoil. The end of my investigation lay in mere days. Soon I’d get back to my job and bury this mess. But I had no real life to speak of. I’d put dating off until this was resolved, while my family urged me to put Shelby’s case to rest. They claimed my obsession with her had become a parasite. Their assessment hit the target. Vacations were spent alone. Holidays with my family teetered between awkward and why had I bothered?

  My swirling thoughts persisted and robbed me of any rest. I pursued truth like a madman. At 2 a.m., I gave up my efforts to fall asleep. Wide-awake, I grabbed my laptop and crawled back into bed. The screen came to life, and I dug into the FBI’s secure site to find a connection between someone in Valleysburg and Shelby’s past.

  When nothing snared my attention, I searched the Pearce family to see how they’d moved on with their lives. Her parents, close to retirement age, owned and operated a bakery. Marissa worked alongside them. She had a daughter who attended the local high school and made excellent grades. Typical. The family had chosen recovery instead of wearing the badge of a victim.

  My thoughts circled back to Valleysburg and Randy Hughes, a bona fide bully. I hadn’t figured out if his attitude pointed to protecting Edie or something else. Since my ongoing investigation had led nowhere, I searched for info about Hughes, the representative of Valleysburg’s finest. Spit-polished and squeaky-clean. A classic example of a big brother watching over his widowed sister. Except for a few reports of verbal abuse and one of police brutality. Perhaps the plight of Shelby’s sister losing her husband intensified Hughes’s motivation.

  I closed my eyes, more discouraged than I’d been in years.

  20

  SHELBY

  Trepidation surged through me at the thought of delivering my jewelry to Amy-Jo. What if her response to my craftsmanship sprang from something else? I could handle opposition much easier than pity.

  Early Monday morning in the gift shop, I presented her with three necklaces and matching earrings crafted from labradorite stones. The labradorite flashed gold, green, blue, and in the sunlight, some even picked up purple shades. I preferred the dark brass wire and its elegant and vintage feel, but I designed one set using blue stones and silver wire. The intricate cross on the back could actually be worn in the front. Each necklace had a two-by-four-inch white card embossed with a thin copper-colored vine and tied with a white, narrow ribbon—thanks to the advice of Edie’s web designer, a high school senior on her deceased husband’s side of the family. The card indicated each jewelry piece’s name, Hebrew meaning, and Scripture.

  “These are breathtaking.” Amy-Jo picked up a necklace rich with gold and amber hues and read the card. “This is an Abigail. ‘Gives joy.’ ‘Always be full of joy in the Lord.’ Philippians 4:4.” She gingerly laid the necklace on the display case and examined another necklace in a pale-gray, purple, and taupe stone. “Bella. ‘Devoted to God.’ ‘Protect me, for I am devoted to you. Save me, for I serve you and trust you. You are my God.’ Psalm 86:2.” She replaced the second necklace and lifted the third with a predominantly blue stone. “Davina. ‘Cherished.’ ‘People who cherish understanding will prosper.’ Proverbs 19:8.”

  Amy-Jo sighed. “Everything about them is perfect, and I love the fact they are reversible. Who knows? I might have to read a Bible.” She chuckled at her own words. “I’ll have these sold before you leave today and a dozen orders.”

  All the while she examined each piece, my heart kept cadence to an invisible marching band. “You’re perfect for my ego. I’m working on other pieces, but before I start something new, do you want anything designed differently?”

  She pursed her ruby-red lips. “Possibly a few more silver-wire pieces. The younger woman will prefer the silver, but the older and more sophisticated woman will snatch the gold and darker wire. I imagine some shades of stone look better with light than dark.”

  “I’ll have a variety including bracelets and earrings. Some will match other pieces, and some will be separate. But all unique designs will have a name and a verse.”

  “We have Spring Celebration Days coming up in May. Retail goes nuts then. A huge parade, pet show, talent contest, and people from all over fill the streets. How many pieces can you get done in eight to nine weeks?”

  Paying Pastor Emory back ASAP penetrated my thoughts. I calculated the hours needed to create the jewelry and the money left from Pastor Emory’s check to purchase any supplies. “I have no idea, but I’ll work on them whenever I’m not here.”

  “Know what?” Amy-Jo twirled a strand of mango-colored hair around her finger. “The celebration will set you up as a local artist, and you’d also have money in your pocket.”

  “Self-confidence and respect would go a long way,” I said.

  “You can—”

  Officer Hughes marched into the café and headed straight toward us. “Shelby Pearce, where were you between the hours of six and seven this morning?”

  Amy-Jo wrapped her arm around my waist. “Right here, Randy. Shelby arrived for work at 5:45 and has been here ever since.”

  He eyed me as though I were sewage. “You need Amy-Jo to do your talking?”

  “No, sir.” I dug my fingers into my palms. “Just like she told you, I’ve been here since 5:45.”

  “Your work hours don’t start until seven.”

  “Amy-Jo changed them right from the start. Why?”

  “Edie called me, said she heard someone messing with her SUV. She grabbed her rifle and chased ’em off.”

  “And you assumed it was me?”

  “Edie had no problems until you came to town. If it wasn’t you, then I bet you know who’s responsible.”

  Officer Hughes reminded me of a couple of ominous prison guards. “Did she see anybody?”

  “Nah.”

  “Now you can take your investigation in another direction.” I lifted my chin.
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  The bells over the café door jingled. “We have customers.” Amy-Jo motioned to the door. “Shelby, you have work to do.” She turned to Officer Hughes. “Unless you’re ordering breakfast, I suggest you leave and stop harassing my employee.”

  His neck and face flamed red. “A little time.” He leaned close to me. “That’s all you got. Better make the best of it until I find the evidence to lock you up or run you off.” Randy stomped out the door.

  “He’s always been this way,” Amy-Jo whispered. “Never understood why when he and Edie’s parents were kind people.”

  I questioned whether police work allowed him to reinforce his bad habits, but I chose not to voice it. “He must be strangely wired.”

  “Edie told me he’s been a bully since grade school. Randy’s ways are like a spray bottle of meanness. Somebody has to stop him because he’s getting worse.”

  21

  My parole stipulated counseling, and I despised it. My personal life added notches to the lies of my past, present, and future. After work, I slowly pedaled to the church office for the first counseling session with Pastor Emory. I sat across the desk from him and Mrs. Emory, wishing I were somewhere else.

  Pastor Emory’s jeans and T-shirt topped with a tan sports jacket gave him an average person look—friendly and approachable. His brown hair held a few strands of gray, and he styled it a bit longer than most men. Mrs. Emory reminded me of a pit bull in black pants. She scooted a chair beside him as though she expected the worst from me. Might not hurt if I offered her some of the grace I craved from others. She did have a flawless olive complexion and large green eyes. Seemed like my mistrust for too many people caused me to judge them. Goodness, I didn’t even know the woman. After all, Mrs. Emory’s presence ensured his protection against gossip and slander, a precaution I respected.