by Peg Cochran
Shelby positioned herself at the sink with her back to Amelia. Amelia was more likely to talk if Shelby wasn’t looking at her. She picked up a sponge and began to wipe down the counter.
“Are you in trouble?” Shelby asked, her mind racing through all the things Amelia might have done. Passing notes in class?
Dear Reader, do kids even pass notes in class anymore like we did? I imagine all messages are sent via text these days.
“No. It’s this girl at school.”
“Oh?” Shelby scraped at a bit of cheese stuck on the counter with her thumbnail.
“Her name’s Lorraine. A lot of the kids pick on her. On the bus today a bunch of boys were calling her Frankenstein.”
“That’s horrible.”
Shelby remembered the girl’s picture on Facebook. Her looks were rather unfortunate.
“I told them to stop.”
Shelby felt a glow of pride. “Good for you.” She turned around and smiled at Amelia briefly.
“Yeah, but now all the kids are going to hate me.”
“For sticking up for this Lorraine? Why?”
“You just don’t do that, Mom. You don’t understand.”
“Have you told a teacher about what’s going on?”
Amelia looked aghast. “You mean be a narc? You’ve got to be kidding.”
Shelby knew better than to try to argue. “Is there something else you can do?”
“Like what?” Amelia put her head in her hands and stared at Shelby morosely.
“I’ve read some schools have antibullying campaigns. Maybe you could start one.”
Amelia made a sound like a grunt. Shelby wasn’t sure if she was agreeing with the suggestion or rejecting it out of hand.
“Maybe you could get some of the more popular kids to join in with you.”
This time Amelia snorted. “Why would they do that?”
Shelby leaned against the counter. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe you could turn it into something cool to do. Start the campaign off with a big bang.”
“Cool?” Amelia stared at her skeptically. “How?”
Shelby thought frantically. “I don’t know. Perhaps a contest of some kind?” She snapped her fingers. “Or how about a theme week?”
Amelia raised her eyebrows.
“You could host a pay-it-forward week,” Shelby said, getting excited about her idea. “And encourage everyone to do something nice for someone else and post it on a special Facebook page. Then you could have a drawing and the winner gets a prize of some sort.”
Amelia wrinkled her nose. But Shelby could tell she was thinking. At least she hadn’t rejected the idea out of hand.
“What kind of prize? Where would we get it?”
“You and Katelyn could form a committee and go around soliciting items from local merchants. I’m sure Matt would donate something.”
Amelia snorted. “Like what? A case of baked beans?”
“Very funny, smarty pants. He carries some nice windbreakers. And maybe the school store would throw in a Lovett High sweatshirt.” Shelby clapped her hands. “Oh, and perhaps the diner would kick in a small gift certificate. I think you could put together a nice basket.”
Amelia’s expression was slowly changing. “Oh,” she exclaimed. “I’ve just had the most wonderful idea.”
“What is it?”
Amelia’s eyes were shining. “I don’t want to say anything until I know if we can pull it off. I have to go talk to Katelyn and see what she thinks.”
“Not even a hint?” Shelby teased.
Amelia shook her head. “You’ve been the biggest help, Mom. Thanks.”
And she aimed a kiss at her mother’s cheek before bolting from the room.
* * *
• • •
As anxious as Shelby was to find out anything she could about Jax and Travis, she had to wait to get back to her research. She had to work on her blog first. She was writing a post on ways to preserve herbs for later use by drying them—or, her favorite method, freezing them in a bit of water in an ice cube tray.
Then it was time for dinner. She was sautéing chicken along with peppers and tomatoes she’d canned from last year’s harvest, a chopped onion and her own homegrown garlic. She’d picked some thyme and oregano to add as well.
Chopping released the scent of the herbs, and Shelby closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the delicious smell. There was something calming about the scent of fresh herbs.
She added the thyme and oregano to the chicken simmering on the stove and put on a pan of water to boil for the potatoes. They were almost the last of the crop she’d picked in the fall, and she wanted to enjoy delicious buttery mashed potatoes one more time. Soon there would be corn from a neighboring farm to be grilled and eaten off the cob.
Amelia was in considerably better spirits when she came down to dinner. Billy never said much while they ate—he was too busy putting away the meal so he could go back outside and play. The days were long, and it was hard to get him to come inside for his bath and bed. Shelby had to keep reminding him that school would be out soon and then he’d have all the time he wanted to spend outside.
Finally Billy was in the tub and Amelia was back on the phone in her room with Katelyn, planning their upcoming antibullying campaign.
Shelby powered up her laptop again and brought up her favorite search engine. She’d already seen a lot of the articles that immediately came up about Travis. They all concerned his music career or were sanitized versions of his brief biography.
Shelby continued to dig until she came to a story from the Michigan Live Web site. It was dated the year Shelby’s husband died, which would explain why she didn’t remember the story.
The piece was about the accident involving Travis and his brother. Jax had sustained a head injury as well as several broken bones, and an unnamed medical source had predicted he would need rehabilitation for months.
Travis had been luckier, having suffered a broken collarbone and two broken ribs—certainly painful enough but much more easily healed.
The story went on to explain the accident with numerous quotes from witnesses on the scene and police personnel as well as professional accident investigators.
None of this seemed particularly relevant to Travis’s murder. Shelby was about to leave the site—she had her finger on her mouse—when she got to the last paragraph. She read it through twice to be sure she was understanding it correctly, although the words and language were plain enough.
Paislee had told her that Jax was driving the car when the accident occurred. Or maybe she simply assumed it. But he hadn’t been. Travis had been behind the wheel.
So not only did Travis leave his brother behind in his rise to stardom—he was the cause of the accident that had stripped Jax of his chance at a music career.
She wouldn’t blame Jax for being mad. But had something pushed him over the edge to murder?
11
Dear Reader,
Have you ever noticed how the first pancake almost never turns out as well as the rest of the batch? There are a couple of things that contribute to that, like your griddle not being hot enough or using too much grease. Your griddle should be hot enough that a couple of drops of water will sizzle and dance when dripped onto the surface. It’s also a good idea to have your batter at room temperature—otherwise it will cool down the surface of your griddle too quickly. And no peeking! Don’t lift the pancake to check the underside until it’s been cooking for two to three minutes, the top is bubbling, and the edges are dry.
Shelby was up early—there was no such thing as sleeping late on a farm. She pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt—mornings were still cool enough to warrant one.
She tiptoed downstairs and out the back door, with Bitsy and Jenkins at her heels. A swirl of mist still clung t
o the dew-covered grass, and the sun was barely above the horizon. It was quiet—only a few birds chirped from their perches in the trees, and the insects were not yet humming their daily song.
The wet grass brushed at Shelby’s ankles as she walked toward the old red barn. The only pieces of wedding decor left were the strands of lights hanging from the rafters. Brian had negotiated with the rental company to keep the generators until the band was no longer using the barn for their practice sessions.
The sun was not yet strong enough to illuminate the inside of the barn, so Shelby flipped on the lights, which twinkled above her like stars in the sky.
She filled her old dented and rusted metal pail with chicken feed from the bag propped in the corner—the same pail her parents had used and possibly even her grandparents—and went back outside, where the chickens quickly gathered around her ankles.
She yawned as she scattered seed across the bare ground. The chickens scurried from spot to spot, pecking up the feed. Off in the distance, Jenkins and Bitsy were running in circles, burning off the energy they’d accumulated during their sleep. In another hour they would be dozing inside in the warmth of a sunbeam, having their first nap of the day.
Shelby returned the pail to the barn and walked back toward the house, breathing deeply and savoring the peace of the morning. It was hard to believe a murder had recently been committed right here on her property. She pushed the thought away as she held the screen door open for Bitsy and Jenkins, who were now ready for their own breakfast.
Shelby had to ease the dogs away with her leg so she could pour their food into their bowls. They watched eagerly, their tongues hanging and saliva bubbling at the corners of their mouths.
Shelby retrieved her griddle from the cupboard and started it warming on the stove while she went to call Billy and Amelia. She waited by the stairs until she heard Billy’s feet hit the floor, then went back to the kitchen to retrieve the pancake batter she’d made the night before from the refrigerator.
Shelby was flipping over the first batch of pancakes when Billy appeared, his cowlick standing up like a rooster’s comb on the top of his head, his eyes still swollen with sleep.
Shelby pulled a plate from the cupboard, stacked three pancakes on it, and slid it in front of Billy, who grunted before picking up the bottle of syrup and flooding his plate.
Shelby had a family friend in northern Michigan who tapped his maple trees in March, when the nights were below freezing and the days warmer, and always sent her several bottles of the precious liquid.
Once Billy and Amelia were out the door and off to the school bus, Shelby did the dishes and tidied up the kitchen.
Shelby was opening up her laptop when she thought of Mrs. Willoughby. The specter of Mrs. Willoughby finding her wanting hung over Shelby’s head. She decided she ought to put a little more time into investigating Isabel Stone. Not that she expected to unearth much of anything about the woman, but if it would set Mrs. Willoughby’s mind at rest, it would be worth it. Reverend Mather would no doubt appreciate having Mrs. Willoughby’s mind laid to rest, too.
Shelby stretched her arms out in front of her at shoulder height, the fingers of both hands laced together. But how to investigate? She dropped her arms and drummed her fingers on the table. Maybe she could contact that company Isabel used to work for. With any luck, someone there might know a little more about Isabel.
Shelby jiggled her mouse and her laptop screen lit up. She went to Facebook, pulled up Isabel’s profile, and checked the name of the Canadian company where she’d worked as a secretary. Glide—that was it.
Shelby found Glide’s Web site easily enough and jotted down their contact number. She hesitated with her hand on the phone—what excuse was she going to give for asking all these questions? She was terrible at lying, but she’d have to give it a go and hope for the best.
“Hello. This is Glide Corporation, Carol Davis speaking. How may I help you?” The woman’s words ran all together.
Shelby twisted the telephone cord around her finger. “Carol, I’d like to verify the employment of an Isabel Stone, please.”
“Isabel? She no longer works here, I’m afraid.”
“I only need to verify her employment and ask you a few questions,” Shelby said, feeling her face turn red at the lies sliding from her mouth so easily.
“Oh, it’s human resources you’ll want, then. You can speak to Dotty Polsky. She’ll be able to help you.”
And before Shelby could even say thank you, her call had been transferred and another phone was ringing. Dotty Polsky picked up on the third ring.
Shelby had to clear her throat twice before any words came out.
“I’m trying to verify the employment of an Isabel Stone who said she used to work for Glide Corporation.”
“Oh my goodness, Isabel!” Dotty said. “How is she? It’s been ages since we’ve heard from her.”
Shelby hesitated. “She’s . . . she’s fine.”
“Oh, good. Such a nice lady. We were really sad to see her go.”
“So you knew Isabel?”
“Yes. We weren’t close, but we would chat whenever we ran into each other, if you know what I mean.” There was a pause and the sound of rustling papers. “We were all so happy for her when she got rid of David. He was a real piece of work.”
“David?”
“Her ex. Treated her very badly, if I must say so myself. She was too nice and took it for far too long. After she divorced him, he took off with some Vegas showgirl. And good riddance, I say.”
“Did they have children?”
“No. I think Isabel saw the writing on the wall and decided against it. Good thing, too.”
“So Isabel worked there as a secretary?”
“Executive secretary,” Dotty corrected quickly. “She worked for George Hastings, the president of Glide. He often said he didn’t know what he’d do without her.”
Shelby’s shoulders sagged. So far, all she’d managed to do was confirm information she already knew.
She cleared her throat again. “What was Isabel Stone like?”
“Like?” Dotty repeated. “Well, she was efficient, always on time, a hard worker. Everything you’d want in an employee.”
All admirable qualities, Shelby thought. But would that satisfy Mrs. Willoughby? Shelby suspected Mrs. Willoughby wouldn’t like Isabel Stone even if she found out the woman was about to be canonized as a saint.
“So you and Isabel were friends?”
“Not friends exactly—like I said, we’d chat whenever we could. Isabel never wanted to come out to lunch with the rest of us gals. Not that she was standoffish—I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. But she always said she had work to do. We’d all be going out for a bite and she’d stay at her computer, typing away at something. One time I saw her with this huge stack of papers in front of her.”
“Oh?”
“When I asked her about it, she positively blushed. Said she hoped to be a writer someday. Took us all by surprise.”
The sound was suddenly muffled as if Dotty had put her hand over the receiver. Shelby heard her saying something to someone in the room.
“Where was I?” Dotty said when she came back on the phone. “I wonder if Isabel is still writing. Whenever I’m in a bookstore, I look to see if she’s had something published. But I suppose it isn’t that easy.”
“I wouldn’t think so,” Shelby said. She unwrapped the phone cord from around her finger. “You’ve been very helpful. Thank you so much.”
Shelby hung up and stared at the phone. So she knew a few things about Isabel now. She was divorced—no kids—she’d been an executive assistant to the president of her company, she was a hard worker, and she wanted to be a writer.
That was quite a lot from one conversation. But would Mrs. Willoughby think it was enough?
* * *
• • •
Shelby fluffed her hair in the bathroom mirror and retrieved her knitting bag from beside the living room sofa. Although to call what she was doing knitting was an exaggeration. It was time for her knitting group at St. Andrews. Shelby was sorely tempted to give up knitting, considering her lack of success. However, quitting wasn’t in her nature, but stubbornness certainly was.
The band’s van had already pulled into the driveway and was parked alongside Shelby’s car. As she walked around it, she could feel it was still warm—they must have recently arrived.
Shelby was opening her car door when she hesitated. Was she being foolish in letting the band practice in her barn? What if one of them was the killer? She thought of each of them in turn—Brian, who was so businesslike and polite; Jax, who still seemed like a boy even though he was well into his twenties; Cody, who worked so hard; Paislee, who didn’t look as if she would hurt a fly; Peter, who was so earnest—and besides, he was Kelly’s cousin.
Some of them might have had a motive for hating Travis and maybe even a motive for killing him. But had they?
Shelby didn’t know. What she did know was that she couldn’t put Billy and Amelia at risk. They were in school during the day, so that was okay. But she’d have to tell the band they’d need to leave the farm before the kids got home.
Shelby opened her car door, threw her knitting bag onto the passenger seat, and slid behind the wheel. Her car was so old it was in danger of becoming a classic, and Shelby always said a short prayer when she turned the key in the ignition.
The car sprang to life and she breathed a sigh of relief, but then it sputtered, it jerked, and the motor went dead. Shelby tried to start it again, but besides making a groaning noise, as if it were in pain, the engine refused to turn over.
Shelby heard a sound and glanced in her rearview mirror. Another car was barreling down the drive, kicking up bits of loose gravel as it went. It pulled up in back of the van and Jax got out.
