by Pamela Tracy
A tall glass of milk cemented their new friendship.
“Chief Riley doesn’t usually let his emotions rule,” Bianca said a little too casually. “What exactly happened yesterday?”
“He pulled me over thinking I was someone else,” Heather said, thinking to herself that what the chief of police had engaged in yesterday had little to do with emotion and more to do with tunnel vision. “Do you think I look like this Rachel Ramsey?”
“Quite a bit, but not a dead ringer,” Bianca admitted. “I can see why Tom pulled you over. Without hearing your voice, seeing the way you walk, your mannerisms, well, he did what he thought he had to do.”
So, it was her voice, her walk, her mannerisms that Bianca claimed set Heather apart from Rachel.
Their identical looks were still an issue and “dead ringer” was a spot-on description.
Lots of what-ifs filtered through her imagination. In the end, she thought, she really, really, really doubted her dad had ever had a relationship with the likes of Diane Ramsey, but Heather was here to investigate and who knew what avenues she’d need to follow.
“What exactly was Rachel wanted for?”
It took Bianca a moment to answer. “Worst case scenario, first degree murder. Though, there’s a chance it will be accessory to a crime.”
First degree... It didn’t get much worse than that.
“Can you tell me a bit about the family?”
“Well, the Ramseys aren’t—weren’t—natives,” Bianca continued. “Diane just showed up one day in a burgundy-and-black Studebaker, in such bad shape that it puffed dark clouds into the air. Old Albert Turner was the chief then, so he chased her down and cited her.”
“You remember like it was yesterday.”
“Hard to forget. Diane’s antics guaranteed we’d all remember when she turned up in town.”
“What kind of antics?”
“Getting drunk at a Founder’s Day celebration.” Bianca laughed and held up her hand before Heather could counter with “lots of people get drunk” and said, “Let’s just say she couldn’t sing and no one appreciated the burlesque show.”
“Oh.”
“The town’s barbershop quartet were performing. She stood right on top of a big speaker and interrupted them. She was louder without a microphone. Albert Turner had to haul her down. It made the paper. From then on, I’d say she made the paper about four or five times a year. I always felt like she had something to prove.”
“Are any Ramseys still in the area?”
“No, not that I’m aware of. I don’t know if Diane and Rachel’s father were married when they had her, or if they ever got divorced or what. She and Rachel just stayed.”
“In the house over on State Route 4?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“Chief Riley said something about it.” Changing the subject by holding up a cinnamon roll, Heather asked, “You make these?”
“No, I buy them from Shelley Guzman. She has a bakery in town.”
Heather’d been in Sweet Sarasota yesterday. She’d picked up a free Founder’s Day muffin—it actually had a plastic school toothpicked into its frosting in celebration of the deaf school that used to be the mainstay of the town. Then she’d purchased three chocolate chip cookies that had smelled only slightly better than the cinnamon roll she was currently eating.
“You met her husband last night. He works for Tom.” Bianca once again was casual. “He’s a cop.”
Guzman. He’d been the big guy who’d challenged the chief of police. “So,” Heather continued, “what kind of girl was Rachel?”
“I,” Bianca said, somewhat sadly, “didn’t know her very well. I don’t have any kids of my own. They didn’t attend church nor did she play with my nephews when they were in town.”
“So all you really know about is Diane?”
Bianca nodded. “And she died just over a year ago.”
It wasn’t the first time Heather heard this. “How?”
“Hard living is what most of the town thinks.”
“Was she young? Old?”
“Why, I guess she couldn’t be that old. Younger than me. I never gave it much thought. She looked sixtyish, at least she did last time I saw her at the grocery store.” Bianca sat back. “Rachel would have been midtwenties, close to your age, which is why Tom must have gotten so flustered. I imagine Diane was fifty or so when she died.”
“Rachel didn’t come back for the funeral?”
“Most of the town thinks either Rachel has no clue her mother passed away, that Rachel didn’t care enough to come back, or that possibly Rachel herself has died. I hope she’s okay. I hope she ran away from here and found a whole better world. Met somebody who cared for her. She certainly was making some of the same mistakes her mother did. Father Joe had us all praying for her.”
“Thank you for sending Father Joe to get me. How did you know I was in jail?”
Bianca laughed. “The phone started ringing. By the third call, I knew it was serious. As for Father Joe, I know just about everyone, and I knew he’d have the easiest time pulling you out of there. In just an hour I’ll be listening to Father Joe’s sermon. You should come with me.”
Heather was tempted. She wanted to talk to Father Joe, but even more, she wanted to visit with the members of the church and ask questions.
Problem was, after yesterday, she was afraid to start.
* * *
AN HOUR LATER, Heather paid for her small supply of groceries. She’d spoken to the man working behind the meat counter. He looked old enough to have been employed at Little’s for almost thirty years but claimed only five years. She’d talked to the current security guard on duty, and he’d spouted something about privacy laws and paperwork. She’d gone to the manager, who told her the name of the man who owned Little’s and said to contact his secretary.
Then she’d chosen the cashier, who looked closest to her father’s age. Trina Gillespie had been employed by Little’s for over thirty years and thought the name Raymond Tillsbury sounded familiar, but claimed she’d couldn’t remember anything else.
Heather even showed a photo from her cellphone to Trina, but before Trina could say more than “um,” the security guard came over and gave Heather a warning look.
Sunday was not the day to call a corporate office, so Heather added the phone number to her contacts and headed back to the bed-and-breakfast.
She had research to do.
* * *
HEATHER’S PHONE RANG at nine o’clock the next morning. She almost didn’t answer it. She’d paced her room most of the night, unable to sleep and feeling slightly sorry if anyone happened to be in the room under hers. These old Victorians creaked and moaned. Even with the morning sun coming through the window, she felt like she’d just gotten to bed. She wasn’t sure whether to blame it on the time spent in jail, the time spent sitting across from Chief Riley, or spending most of yesterday visiting Little’s Grocery Store and later reading online about the whole Ramsey family.
Poor choices had indeed been a sugarcoated phrase. And Bianca was right. Rachel Ramsey’s mother had made worse choices than the daughter. Heather couldn’t even imagine growing up in such desperate circumstances.
“Miss Graves?” a voice queried once Heather answered her phone.
“Yes.”
“This is Tessa down at Sarasota Dental. You came in last Thursday and dropped off a résumé.”
Heather sat up in bed, fatigue gone. She’d liked the originality of Sarasota Dental’s building. It looked like it was straight from a cartoon—it was a purposely crooked little clapboard house, painted sky-blue, with giant eyelashes over the top-floor windows and white teeth surrounding the front door. A giant toothbrush served as the mailbox, and a tree in the front—which had a face with
an open mouth and one twisted limb, acting like an arm—was flossing.
She half expected the limb to move, but it hadn’t. Clearly children were a big part of their clientele. Who knows, maybe the decor made a few adults feel a little calmer, too.
“Yes, that was me,” she said.
“Could you come in this afternoon and meet with Dr. Goodman? We might have a temporary position if you’re interested.”
“What time?” Heather would be there in five minutes, wearing her pajamas and brandishing a toothbrush with a floss lasso if it meant she got the job.
“Would two work?”
Five hours to kill.
“I’ll be there.” Heather hit the disconnect button and swung her feet over the edge of the bed. Temporary might be perfect. It would give her something to do, yet allow her to change her mind about staying in Sarasota Falls if things didn’t work out.
She wanted to find family, but was now fearful about the kind of family she might find. Before she stood up, she directed Siri to call Father Joe. He’d not answered when she called yesterday, but then it had been Sunday, and as a minister, Sunday was his busy day.
He failed to answer this morning also. He knew things about her family; she was sure. Maybe things he didn’t want to share.
Heather showered and then straightened up the room. It was pretty but a little old-fashioned. Maybe that was what Bianca was going for. The room was painted in dark, vibrant reds and browns. The floor was wood with a huge flower-patterned rug covering most of it. The two chairs in the room were worn but comfortable.
The walls were covered with landscape paintings. There were a few photographs, mostly of the town. Heather recognized a much younger Bianca in a few of them.
Heather’s parents’ house had been much like Heather’s. They’d had nothing antique, and the family photos were only of the immediate family: Bill, Melanie and Heather Graves.
Heather was blond-haired with blue eyes and light skin. Her mother had red hair, freckles and even lighter skin. Her father was black-haired and green-eyed. They’d never talked about the past, they’d never answered her questions about family—she’d known from the time she was nine that they were alone. She just hadn’t known they were alone because of so many secrets.
This move was her attempt to solve them, find out who she was. Resembling Rachel Ramsey might not be what she’d figured on, but it was the first card she’d drawn. She just hoped it didn’t lead to Colonel Mustard standing over her brandishing a bloody candlestick.
Instead of worrying about it, she settled down on the chair with a romantic suspense novel, kicked her feet up on the bed and got lost in the kind of life she dreamed about but didn’t have.
That is, until she’d left the lawyer’s office and then found the safe-deposit box and moved here.
At one thirty, she tried Father Joe again. No answer. Then she got in her car and headed to Sarasota Dental, arriving five minutes before her interview.
Dr. Goodman turned out to be James Goodman. He paused and stared at her, then said, “You genuinely do look like the Ramsey girl.”
Heather wasn’t sure how to answer. She wanted the job, but she didn’t want to ruminate over how she resembled a killer, and she certainly hoped he hadn’t called her here just to do a comparison.
“In Phoenix, I worked for a small practice,” she said. “You can call—”
“I already did. They said they had to hire two hygienists to take your place, and to send you back if things didn’t work out here. So, it says on your résumé that you went to work for them right after college. Your first job?”
“It was my first full-time job outside of working for my mother. She did childcare in our home, so I’ve been around children quite a bit.”
“We primarily see children, but a few of my patients aren’t willing to leave home after eighteen. I probably have twenty or so adult patients who insist I take care of their teeth.”
For another few minutes, they exchanged pleasantries as well as their views on work ethics. She admired the photos on his office walls: a rock star who’d needed a filling when passing through town, a wife and two sons and also one of him and the mayor, who turned out to be his brother. He admired her résumé.
Finally, he leaned forward and asked, “So, if you don’t mind my asking, what brought you here?”
If it wasn’t for what she’d already experienced, she’d have glibly said, “I’m looking for family.” That response, however, no longer felt safe.
“I’ve friends in the area and was looking to downsize.” She met his gaze, thinking how much life had changed in the last few months and how she’d never felt vulnerable before.
Problem was, if she went back home now, she’d always wonder.
“I’m a great believer in downsizing,” Dr. Goodman said. “Everywhere except my practice. So, my assistant, Maya, who has been with me twenty-five years, wants to spend the winter with her daughter in New Hampshire. Seems she’s about to become a grandmother. When you dropped off your application, she saw a way to make it happen. She, however, intends to return come April. I’ve only got a temporary position for a few months.”
“I’m good with that.” Heather smiled.
“My concern,” Dr. Goodman said, “is you’ll not be happy working as the office administrator. You’re a hygienist, and I’ve already got one. You might grow bored and find another job, one that isn’t temporary, and I’ll be without my regular assistant and without you.”
“There’s always that concern,” Heather said. She wasn’t willing to promise she’d stay if a better opportunity arose. Then again, a few months’ commitment meant if the family she found didn’t want her—or worse, she didn’t want them—she could head back to Phoenix with no regrets.
“Then I’d better make it worth your while.” He offered her a salary higher than the one she’d walked away from at her previous job. Hmm, how could she say no? Why would she want to? After shaking his hand, she went up front to fill out the necessary forms, promised to return the next day for training and walked out employed.
Back at the B and B, Bianca was checking in a guest and Father Joe wasn’t taking Heather’s calls, so she had no one to celebrate with. Her best friend, Sabrina, back in Phoenix, would only gripe that taking this job meant Heather really wasn’t coming back.
She decided to try Turner’s farm again. She’d been around there Saturday when she’d been so rudely interrupted by a rogue cop with a vendetta that somehow involved her.
She pushed away that fear.
She was here to find family. That Rachel Ramsey happened to look like her was pure happenstance.
Didn’t mean a thing.
She hoped.
Yeah, right.
* * *
MAX STOCKARD’S WIDOW, Sylvia, lived with their two children just a couple of blocks behind Main Street. She made jewelry and, during the Founder’s Day celebration, had manned what looked to be a successful booth.
“Hey, Sylvia,” Tom shouted while also knocking on the screen door that was unlocked no matter how many times he’d warned her to keep it locked, and waited. He was tempted to just enter, like he’d done for so many years.
Instead, he knocked louder.
“Hey, Tom.” Sylvia finally came to the door. She wiped her hands on an apron, then pushed her glasses up along the bridge of her nose.
“I’d thought I’d stop by and fill you in on something unusual that happened having to do with...Max’s case.”
“I’ve been expecting you. I heard you stopped someone on suspicion, but everyone says you’ve made a mistake. That’s not the Tom I know.”
“I’m pretty sure I made a mistake,” he admitted and not for the first time, “but hopefully it will lead to something. Let me fill you in.”
She nodded, le
ading him to the kitchen, where he sat at his usual spot and accepted a fresh cup of coffee.
“I was heading over to Richard Welborn’s place,” Tom said, “wanting to nose around a bit and see if he’d come back.”
“He’s not coming back.”
“You never know.”
He and Max always debated the stupidity of some criminals. Sylvia had a different outlook. She also believed in rehabilitation.
Her dad was serving time for fraud, so she had reason to hope.
“The woman,” Tom continued, “one Heather Graves, looks exactly like Rachel Ramsey, down to the red birthmark above her left lip.”
Sylvia raised an eyebrow. Now he had her attention. Thirty minutes later, after fixing her garbage disposal and tightening the nozzle on her back sprinkler, he left. For five years, he’d taken care of the little things around the house for Sylvia, things Max would have done.
Sometimes he missed being a husband.
He radioed in the time and his destinations, and took off. As he left the downtown area, he thought about getting over loss. Max’s death had broken his spirit, but it was Tom’s wife leaving him that had broken his heart.
He tried to shake away the memories, and focus on the job ahead of him. He needed to check on the possibility of Richard Welborn’s return as well as meet up with Ms. Graves and prod at her history a bit more.
Heather Graves might have shared her story, but he was pretty sure she’d left out whole chapters.
CHAPTER EIGHT
AFTER A FORTY-FIVE-MINUTE DRIVE, twenty minutes longer than it needed to be because she’d made a detour and driven by the house she owned, Heather pulled into a gravel parking lot and stepped out in front of a small store decorated with bees and that smelled like cinnamon. Although the open sign was stuck in the window, no one was inside when she entered.
She walked up and down the aisles, noting that the bee decor from outside dominated inside, too. Turner’s farm had twelve different flavors of honey, as well as honey candy, honeycombs and even whipped honey, which was perfect for spreading across a peanut butter sandwich, or so the label on the package advised.
