by Peg Cochran
She heard Jenkins grunt and the crack of Bitsy’s knees as they settled themselves onto their respective dog beds. Moments later, the soft murmur of Jenkins’s snoring drifted on the warm air.
Barely a minute later, Shelby sat up in bed, her ears straining in an attempt to decipher the sound she was convinced she had just heard. The cracking of a twig as someone stepped on it? The specter of Alan Swanson creeping toward the house in the dark immediately rose to Shelby’s mind.
She sat stock-still in bed, clutching the sheets, trying to sort out the noises coming in the open window—the croaking of crickets, the faint sound of a car in the distance, then another crack followed by a thump. Shelby pulled the sheet up to her chin, her breath ragged, beads of sweat beginning to form on the back of her neck. Another loud crack. Shelby bit back a cry and slipped out of bed. She knelt down beside it and swiped a hand underneath, stifling a sneeze as dust rose in the air and drifted toward her.
Her hand made contact with a baseball bat—a Louisville Slugger that Bill had wielded in Lovett’s defeat of a team from Detroit in the playoffs his senior year in high school. She held it close to her side as she made her way toward the bedroom door. She whistled for Bitsy and Jenkins, who sprang to their feet as if they hadn’t been deeply asleep only seconds ago. They followed Shelby as she made her way into the hallway toward the stairs. Halfway down the steps, Shelby suddenly realized how ridiculous she must look—creeping about in the night with a baseball bat for a weapon—all because some nocturnal animal had stepped on some dry twigs.
The glimpse she’d had of Alan Swanson’s face as she drove out of his neighborhood had certainly set her nerves on edge. She sat on the bottom step, the bat held loosely across her lap, and listened intently. Wind whooshed through the trees and crickets chirped, but Shelby couldn’t hear anything even remotely sinister—no one wiggling the door handle or sawing at the screen.
She was getting chilly and pulled her T-shirt down so that it covered her knees. She sat on the steps for another five minutes before deciding she was being ridiculous—no one was trying to break in. She might as well go back to bed.
Shelby tiptoed up the stairs, Bitsy and Jenkins on her heels, slid the baseball bat back beneath the bed, and crawled under the sheet.
Shelby finally managed to fall into a restless sleep, but when she woke in the morning, the bedclothes were tangled around her legs and her pillow was damp with perspiration—evidence of her night filled with frightening nightmares and restless sleep.
She sat on the edge of the bed and yawned. For once she was glad it was time to get up. She felt as if she’d been fighting in her sleep, and her bones and muscles ached with a combination of tension and weariness. Staying busy was always the best prescription for a troubled mind, her granny used to say, and many times Shelby had found her to be right about that.
The word coffee percolated through Shelby’s mind as she pulled on jeans and a long-sleeved shirt—mornings were still chilly in Lovett in June, although by noon she’d be swapping her top for a T-shirt and her jeans for a pair of shorts.
She splashed some cold water on her face, patted her hair into semi-submission, and flipped off the bathroom light. She felt her way down the darkened hall toward the stairs, glancing at Amelia’s and Billy’s closed doors as she passed. She imagined she could hear soft breathing coming from both of them.
The stairs creaked in the same spots they always did—the second step from the top and the fourth one from the bottom—but the children didn’t stir. Bitsy and Jenkins padded along in back of her—she could hear Jenkins’s nails tapping on the wooden floor and the sound of Bitsy’s constant panting.
Shelby stood in front of the coffeemaker for a moment, trying to force her sleep-addled brain to remember how it worked. Finally she pulled the coffee canister closer, emptied the basket of yesterday’s grounds, and began measuring out a fresh batch. A few minutes later, the scent of brewing coffee began circulating through the kitchen. Shelby inhaled deeply and grabbed a mug from the cabinet.
Hot coffee in hand, she padded barefoot out to the sunroom and dropped into the old rocker. A piece of broken wicker poked the back of her leg, and she shifted around in her seat to avoid it. She rocked back and forth, reviewing all the things that needed to be done that day before the meeting of the knitting club later that afternoon.
Shelby mentally cringed when she thought about her knitting. She’d bought that red wool with such hope and enthusiasm and had utterly failed to weave it into the scarf she’d hoped to make for Billy. Thinking about the skeins of wool she’d brought home from the Lovett General Store reminded her of the scrap of yarn Frank and his team had found in the mudroom. When he’d showed it to her, she’d assumed it was hers, but now that she thought about it, she wasn’t so sure. Wasn’t that piece a darker red—verging toward maroon? She remembered someone in the knitting group using a similar color, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember who it was.
She drained the rest of her coffee and heaved herself out of the rocker. The chickens weren’t going to feed themselves. The sky was beginning to lighten to the east—they’d be squawking furiously and prancing around in indignation by now.
Shelby slipped her feet into her gardening clogs and headed out the back door. The drops of dew clinging to the lawn were cool against her bare heels as she brushed against the grass. The air, too, had that early-morning chill, which the sun would eventually burn away as it climbed higher in the sky.
The air was fragrant with the mingled scent of herbs and damp ground. Shelby inhaled deeply. As much as she hated leaving her bed so early every morning, she relished this time of day, when the world was quiet and still.
The barn was a shadow in the distance. Even before she reached it, Shelby heard the screeching and squawking of the chickens. Their chatter was interrupted by a vocalization from Jack Sparrow, the rooster. Shelby had learned to interpret his different crows, and this one signaled danger from above, like a hawk ready to swoop down on unsuspecting prey.
As Shelby approached, she watched the hens scurry toward the shelter of the barn, their frantically flapping wings creating a maelstrom of flying feathers.
Shelby pushed the barn door open wider. It creaked loudly and she again made a mental note to oil the old hinges. The interior was dark, with the only light coming from the open door behind her. She felt along the wall for the shelf, retrieved her flashlight, and turned it on.
Dust motes danced in the beam of light as Shelby made her way across the barn. She set the flashlight down, retrieved the battered metal bucket from the hook in the wall, and began to fill it with chicken feed.
The chickens squawked and danced around, scratching at the barn floor as they waited impatiently. Shelby picked up the now-full bucket and headed toward the door. The chickens turned and followed her out of the barn, making her feel like a sort of Pied Piper of the poultry set.
Shelby stood in the middle of the yard and began scattering the grain in a wide arc. The chickens scurried after the feed, pushing each other out of the way as if afraid there wouldn’t be enough.
“There’s plenty for all of you,” Shelby called to them as she tossed out the last handful.
She retrieved her flashlight, turned it on, and headed back into the barn. The sun was slowly rising and more light filtered into the barn now. Shelby switched off her flashlight—no need to waste the batteries when she could see reasonably well now. She reached the back of the barn, returned the pail to its hook, and turned around to leave.
Shelby jumped and stifled a gasp. Someone was standing in the doorway. The person was silhouetted against the light, making it impossible for Shelby to tell who he, or she, was.
“Bert?” she called out even though she already knew the silhouette was too tall and too slim to be Bert’s.
“Who’s Bert?”
The voice was female and tantalizingly famil
iar.
The person stepped farther into the darkened barn, moving away from the light. Shelby picked up her flashlight, switched it on, and aimed the beam at the intruder.
26
Dear Reader,
You know how they say people’s lives flash in front of their eyes when they’re drowning? I don’t know if that’s true or not, but in this case it did happen to me. I saw myself as a girl sitting in that old apple tree that Billy likes to climb, then dressed in the white wedding gown my grandmother sewed for me with fabric that originally came from her gown. Bill was at my side, looking impossibly handsome. We started giggling because we both knew we couldn’t wait to be alone. Then the dash to the hospital through the pouring rain and the arrival of Amelia. It was sunny the day Billy was born, and we almost didn’t make it in time. And now here I am, facing a killer in my own barn.
“Grace!” Shelby exclaimed.
“Were you expecting someone else?”
“No . . . no,” Shelby said. She didn’t tell Grace that she had been positive her husband, Alan, would be the one coming after her.
Shelby’s mind raced, trying to piece together the facts she knew about Prudence’s murder—Prudence’s false accusations, Liz claiming to have seen a woman follow Prudence into the mudroom, Prudence’s call to Marcia . . . and that bit of yarn Frank and his team found in the mudroom. Of course! It must have been Grace’s. Shelby remembered now—Grace had been knitting a dark red sweater—more than once Shelby had admired the skill with which she’d followed that complicated-looking pattern of cables and bobbles. So Liz had been right after all—she had seen a woman go into the mudroom after Prudence.
“What do you want?” Shelby tried to keep the quaver out of her voice.
“I want you to be quiet,” Grace said, slowly raising her arm. There was a gun in her hand.
Shelby involuntarily took a step backward. “I won’t say anything,” she said, even though she knew it was pointless—Grace wouldn’t believe her.
Grace laughed. “Why should I believe you? Prudence refused to be quiet.” She took a step closer to Shelby and smiled. “I’m not much of a shot, and I don’t want to miss.”
“I promise—”
“Prudence would have ruined everything—blabbing to everyone about Alan’s other wife. I knew all about Marcia. He promised me he would divorce her as soon as the time was right. And then I would be his one and only.” Grace’s face hardened, reminding Shelby of a picture of a gargoyle she had seen once.
“I waited so long for someone to come along—I wasn’t about to let anyone ruin it. Certainly not Prudence.” She shook her head. “With Prudence taken care of, the problem was solved, but then you had to go nosing around, didn’t you?”
“But I’m not going to say anything, I promise.”
“I wish I could say I believe you.” Grace aimed the gun and braced her one arm with the other.
Panic made Shelby’s heart race until the blood pounding in her ears became deafening. She looked around, her head spinning like the girl’s in the Exorcist. If Grace missed, it would give Shelby the opportunity to duck under the loft. If. But then what? Move, she screamed to herself. It was always harder to hit a moving target—and who knew how good a shot Grace really was?
Shelby thought of screaming, but who would hear her? Even if Jake was on the very edge of his field, her voice would be muffled by the walls of the barn, and it would be a miracle if he heard her. The house was too far away. Besides, the last thing she wanted was for either of the children to come running. The thought made her shiver.
“Cold?” Grace sneered. “Fear does that to a person.”
Grace’s finger was on the trigger now. Shelby was tempted to close her eyes, like a child facing something unpleasant, but that wasn’t going to save her. She inched her hand toward the pocket of her shorts.
“Stop!” Grace commanded, waving the gun wildly at Shelby. “Put your hands where I can see them.”
Shelby held her hands out in front of her in a gesture of surrender. Grace raised the gun again. Shelby was primed to throw herself to one side when Bitsy and Jenkins appeared in the doorway. Their heads were raised and their eyes narrowed—they obviously sensed danger. Jenkins bristled with indignation and even the normally placid Bitsy had pulled her lips back, baring her teeth. Both uttered a low guttural growl deep in their throats.
Grace looked over her shoulder at the dogs. “They’re not going to save you. I’ll shoot you first and then the two of them.”
She pointed the gun at Shelby and put her finger back on the trigger. Shelby threw herself to one side as Grace squeezed the trigger. The bullet missed her but came a heck of a lot closer than she would have liked.
The sun was getting brighter and pinpricks of light lit the barn’s leaky roof. The lighter it got, the better Grace’s aim would likely become.
Grace raised her arm again, but before she could shoot, the dogs were on her. Jenkins bit her in the calf and Grace dropped the gun and howled in pain, grabbing with both hands at her leg. Before she could straighten up, Bitsy was on her, sending her flying backward. Grace hit the ground with a thud, sending up a cloud of dust.
Grace squirmed and thrashed this way and that, but she couldn’t throw Bitsy off her. Jenkins hovered nearby, giving a low growl and baring his teeth.
“Get this beast off me,” Grace screamed. “I’m bleeding. I need a doctor.” Her tone was pleading now.
Grace stuck out her arm, swishing it back and forth across the ground in an attempt to retrieve her gun. Shelby had already started looking for it, but it was nowhere to be seen. She hoped that if she couldn’t find it, Grace wouldn’t, either.
Bitsy seemed to be doing an admirable job of restraining Grace, so Shelby reached into her pocket and pulled out her cell phone. She was dialing 911 when a voice came from the open barn door—a masculine voice this time.
“Drop the phone,” it commanded.
Shelby looked up. Alan Swanson was standing just inside the barn with a gun pointed straight at Shelby. She was so startled that she dropped her cell phone. It hit the ground and bounced twice before landing facedown.
“What . . . ,” Shelby stammered.
“Call off your dogs.” Alan waved his gun toward Bitsy and Jenkins, who continued to stand guard over Grace.
Shelby gave a sharp whistle, and both dogs turned to look at her. “Bitsy, Jenkins, come,” Shelby ordered.
They hesitated for a moment, reluctant to relinquish their prey. Shelby slapped her thigh, and they both left their position and walked over to where she was standing. The hair on Jenkins’s back was standing on end, and Bitsy stood stiff and at attention. Both looked disappointed that Shelby had put an end to their fun.
Alan reached down and grasped Grace’s hand, pulling her to her feet. “Are you all right, darling?”
“I’m bleeding,” Grace snapped, pointing to her leg.
“We’ll soon get you to a doctor—don’t worry.”
“It hurts,” Grace whined.
“I’ll just finish up here, shall I?” Alan raised his gun and pointed it straight at Shelby. “Too bad you didn’t heed our warning,” he said.
“You hung the squash from my porch roof,” Shelby exclaimed.
“It was Grace’s idea. Brilliant, don’t you think? Too bad it didn’t work.”
Shelby had a flashback to the potluck. She remembered talking to Alan and Grace and noticing the blot of red sauce on Alan’s white shirt—sauce that looked as if it had come from Prudence’s slow-cooker meatballs.
“You’re the one who killed Prudence,” Shelby said. “Not Grace.”
“Yes.” Alan preened and threw his shoulders back. “I’m the one who killed Prudence.” He put an arm around Grace and squeezed her. “Grace was only trying to protect me.”
Grace smiled up at him.
�
��Prudence recognized me from their former church in Cranberry Cove. She called Marcia and told her all about it. I couldn’t let her ruin things for me. I knew I could convince Marcia it was all a lie—Prudence was forever telling tales, and it was easy enough to convince Marcia that this was another one of them.”
Shelby looked at Grace. “Doesn’t it bother you that your husband has another wife?”
“I won’t be married to Marcia much longer,” Alan said before Grace could answer. “I need to take care of a few details and then as her spouse, I’ll be getting the check from her rather hefty life insurance policy. When she took it out, I thought it was rather a waste of money, but now I’m glad she insisted.”
“You mean you’re going to kill—”
“Why not?” Alan shrugged. “Then Grace and I can be together legally.”
Dear Reader, that’s pretty rich of him, don’t you think? Worrying about legality when he’s already committed murder?
It was lighter in the barn now, making Shelby an even easier target for Alan. The phrase shooting fish in a barrel came to mind. Maybe if she kept Alan talking, someone would come along? Shelby knew that was a long shot, even as the thought crossed her mind. She wasn’t going down without a fight, though—that was for sure. She couldn’t leave Amelia and Billy orphaned. A sob caught in her throat, and she balled her hands into fists.
“And now it’s your turn.” Alan leveled the gun at Shelby.
27
Dear Reader,
Have you ever noticed how in moments of fear, all your senses are heightened—smell, for instance? I could smell both dogs—Jenkins smelled of damp fur, as if he had gotten into some water somewhere on the farm—and Bitsy smelled hot. I could smell Alan’s aftershave, too—something musky and rather too heavy for summer. My hearing became acute as well. There was the sound of water dripping somewhere that I hadn’t noticed before. I made a mental note to check it out before realizing how ridiculous that was. I was staring down the barrel of a gun and not likely to get away.
