by Jeff Shelby
It was the opening I needed, the opening I knew he would provide. It was the reason I’d opted to pull into the church parking lot rather than head home, even though I’d tried to convince myself I was going to do just that.
I just had to decide to take it.
I looked at him. “If I tell you something, will you promise to keep it a secret?”
“I’m a pastor, Rainy.” His smile was warm, comforting. “A spiritual advisor cannot disclose information offered in confidence.”
A spiritual advisor. I pondered those words. I’d never ascribed that title to Declan, but if I were being honest, this was precisely what he was. For whatever reason, Declan had absolutely fulfilled this role during my time in Latney. He was always the one I turned to when I needed to talk, to hash things out…and when I needed advice. Sure, I called Mack when I was frustrated or stymied by the details of a particular situation, but Declan was my sure thing, the person I knew I could turn to in times of need.
My spiritual advisor.
I parked myself in the chair across from his and, over a cup of really bad coffee, I laid out what was going on with the Latney Ladies Society and the missing money. I didn’t leave a single detail out, including what I’d just seen on the clipboard at Toby’s.
“Poor Sophia,” Declan said as he sipped his own coffee. “I imagine she’s struggling a bit right now.”
“Yes, the evidence against her doesn’t look good.”
“And the authorities aren’t involved yet?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. The only people who know at this point are Sophia, Walter, and Vivian. Well, and you and me.”
Declan nodded. “It makes sense to keep this quiet while they try to figure out what might have happened.”
I set my coffee cup on his desk. “Do you think it’s odd that Vivian signed Sophia’s name? On the order at Toby’s?”
Declan’s brows drew together. “What do you mean?”
“She didn’t just write down Sophia’s name on the order form. She signed it. It was an exact replica of Sophia’s signature. I know because I thumbed through the check registry and saw her signature on a voided check.”
Declan paused for a minute, thinking. “I guess it could look a little suspicious.”
A little? It had set off all sorts of warning bells for me.
“But Vivian and Sophia are good friends, and I know for a fact that Vivian helps Sophia with all of her Christmas cards.”
“Her what?”
“Christmas cards,” he repeated. “They were working on them last year when I stopped in the boutique. Sophia sends out handwritten cards to everyone who has ever signed up for her mailing list. It’s quite the task—last year, she said she was mailing out nearly a thousand cards. Vivian offered to help and they worked through the stack together. I assume Vivian got pretty good at signing Sophia’s name.”
I thought about his explanation. This was something I didn’t know, and it did provide a reasonable excuse for why Vivian would know how to mimic Sophia’s signature.
But it still struck me as odd that she’d decide to sign the order form that way. Why hadn’t she just printed Sophia’s name?
It almost felt like it was a clue I was supposed to find, a clue that would indicate maybe the case—and Sophia’s guilt—wasn’t as cut and dried as it appeared.
“So you don’t think it’s a reason to suspect her?” I asked.
Declan thought for a minute. “I don’t think that alone can be used as a sign of guilt,” he said. “If there are other things that point to her, then that might be cause for concern. But the signature alone? I’m not sure I would focus on that.”
I nodded. His logic made sense. Apart from the signature, there was no reason to suspect Vivian. I kept going back to her phone call. If she’d been the one to steal the money, why on earth would she have called me and asked me to come over? It made no sense.
I turned my attention back to the other person most involved. “And the other stuff? The check made out to Sophia, by Sophia? And the fact that it was cashed in Richmond, and that she was actually there the day it was cashed?”
There was another long pause. “That does look bad,” he admitted. “But I just go back to what I know about Walter and Sophia. They live comfortably. Walter has a great job and Sophia has a successful boutique.”
I knew what he was getting at. It was the thing Mack always focused on, too, when he was sizing up cases. The reason it was hard to suspect Sophia of taking the money was because we were missing one thing: motive.
The problem was, if she wasn’t responsible for taking the money, who was?
FOURTEEN
Two hours after chatting with Declan, I was staring at a kitchen full of chickens.
I’d gone home and, after setting out my hard-earned pumpkins and putting away the small supply of groceries I’d purchased at Toby’s, I decided to finally tackle the rest of the box of décor Declan had gifted me.
I had chicken-themed towels and trivets, and a sugar bowl and creamer. I had an egg-shaped kitchen timer, and some cute, vintage-looking prints for my walls. The burst of color, of reds and yellows, instantly brightened the room, and I smiled with satisfaction at the end results. I liked having new-to-me things, and I liked that Declan had thought to pass them along specifically to me.
I heated up some leftover soup for lunch and then, with the dishes washed and put away, I sat down at the kitchen table with a pad of paper and a pencil, determined to come up with a list of things to do. The options were endless—living on a hobby farm provided ample opportunity for repairs and improvements and projects—but I needed to come up with some firm ideas and then tackle them because there was one thing that was taking up way too much of my time.
The Latney Ladies Society’s missing money.
I couldn’t stop thinking about what I had seen at the grocery store. And I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that something just wasn’t right in regards to Vivian.
Although Declan had offered a reasonable explanation for why Vivian knew how to sign Sophia’s signature, it still didn’t make sense that she’d chosen to sign the form that way. Latney was a small town: Mr. Lattimore would know that Sophia and Vivian were both members of the society, and he would know that just because Vivian was ordering the items and Sophia was signing the check, both belonged to the group and both had decision-making power. People here knew each other’s business, and knew each other’s character. Vivian would have no reason to place a false order on behalf of the charitable organization she volunteered for, especially since it had been a town tradition for years.
So if Vivian knew how to sign Sophia’s name, and could do it that easily, could she be the person who had swiped the blank check and forged Sophia’s signature? Could she be the person who had stolen the money?
It seemed preposterous. Vivian Sumner reeked of wealth and privilege. She lived in a beautiful home, she wore beautiful clothes, and she had beautiful things. Her father was extremely well to do; I knew this because of her constant complaining over how much money he had spent over the years on her stepsister, Leslie.
Perhaps if her financial circumstances had changed recently, she might be desperate enough to embezzle the money. But I’d just been to her house: there was nothing to indicate that she’d suddenly experienced a downturn in finances.
And she’d also been deeply distraught over the money. In fact, she had been the one to contact me because she’d had no one else to confide in when she’d discovered the money had disappeared.
I slumped in my chair, dropping the pencil I was holding to the table. There was no reason to suspect Vivian Sumner.
There was a quick rap on my kitchen door, and then it pushed open. A ray of sunshine beamed across the floor, temporarily blinding me to the person who was in my doorway. But I didn’t have to guess. I knew who would be standing there.
Gunnar.
“Hey,” he said, tipping the baseball cap per
ched on his head. He stepped into the room, blocking the blinding sun, and smiled at me.
He was dressed in jeans and a blue flannel, along with his worn work boots. They were creased and caked with dried mud that I was sure had permanently adhered to the leather underneath.
“I brought the tiller over,” he told me, hitching his thumb and pointing to the open door. “Just finished my garden and thought I’d get yours done, too, if you’re alright with that.”
I nodded. “Sure, that would be great.”
“You got everything you want out of there?”
“I pulled the last of the carrots a week ago,” I told him. That had been a day-long activity: harvesting them, peeling and chopping, then flash boiling before bagging them and putting them in the chest freezer in the basement.
“Hope you set aside a few for me,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “It’s the one thing I didn’t plant this year.”
I nodded again, a little distracted. I wasn’t thinking about carrots and gardens: I was still fixated on Vivian.
Gunnar’s expression changed. Gone was the smile, replaced by a puzzled frown. “Everything okay?”
I nodded before I could stop myself.
“You sure?” His voice held a note of disbelief.
I looked at him for a moment. I could tell him what happened this morning—I knew he would keep it a secret—but I couldn’t force myself to say the words.
I asked him a different question instead. “What do you know about Vivian?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Vivian? Vivian Sumner?” He let out a little chuckle. “What do you mean, what do I know about her?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
He grinned. “Are you asking me what I think of her?”
My cheeks were beginning to feel warm. “Not like that,” I said quickly. “I mean, I know she’s beautiful—”
“Doesn’t hold a candle to you.”
My cheeks were now on fire. “I was just curious if she’s seemed a little…different lately.”
I didn’t know where I was going with this. It was a ridiculous question to ask; after all, I hadn’t seen anything unusual in her behavior or appearance, so why on earth would I be asking Gunnar this? In fact, why was I asking him anything at all? He probably thought I was fishing for compliments, looking for affirmation, being a needy middle-aged woman who had to be told that she was still attractive. I was ready to die of embarrassment.
He leaned against the counter, his gaze aimed upward at the ceiling. “Well, now that you mention it…”
I froze for half a second, then nearly leaped out of my chair. “What?”
“She’s still the same old Vivian,” he said. “Thinks she’s the cat’s meow. She’s never been my cup of tea, if you know what I mean. Too uppity. ” He toed the floor with his boot.
“Okay.” I tried to wait patiently for him to elaborate, but his hesitancy was killing me.
“I don’t know that it’s really my place to say,” he hedged.
“Gunnar.” I stared at him. “This is me. Rainy. You can tell me anything. What do you know about Vivian?”
He took off his cap and ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “I don’t really know. Let’s just say that she’s not who she pretends to be.”
My breath caught in my throat. “What do you mean?”
He was quiet.
“How is she not who she pretends to be?” I pressed.
He sighed again. “Let’s just say she’s not as rich as everyone thinks she is.”
FIFTEEN
“Tell me everything.”
I’d forced Gunnar into a chair at the kitchen table.
“I don’t know that there’s much to tell,” he said. I’d poured him a glass of lemonade and he swallowed a mouthful down.
“You said she’s not as rich as she pretends to be,” I said, trying to prompt him. I was sure my eyes were wild with excitement; this was exactly the break I had been looking for, the potential missing piece of the puzzle of the missing money. “Has she filed for bankruptcy or something?”
He frowned. “Not that I know of.” He eyed me. “Why are you so interested in Vivian?”
I waved my hand. “Oh, I just heard some stuff from Sophia,” I said vaguely. “I thought they might be rumors.”
His eyes narrowed a bit. “What kind of stuff?”
I didn’t like lying to him. But I wasn’t ready to spill everything I was suspecting, either. Not yet. “Oh, just that money has been a little tight,” I said instead. “I was just surprised, because when I was over at her house the other day, she didn’t mention anything.” I spoke the words casually, as if me heading over for a visit with Vivian was nothing out of the ordinary.
He drank some more of his lemonade, and I wondered if he was going to call me out on it. He knew I wasn’t close to anyone in town, but he also didn’t track my every move, either.
“I’m sure it’s not something she wants to advertise,” he finally said.
“So it’s true, then? She’s struggling financially?”
“I guess,” he said. “I was over at her house a few weeks ago.” He glanced at me and then quickly added, “She asked me to swing by to take a look at her water heater. I guess it had been giving her problems and she wanted to see if it was something I could fix or if she’d have to call in a repairman.”
“And were you able to fix it?”
He nodded. “She just had a couple of heating elements that needed replacing. I ordered the parts and installed them for her. Probably saved her a few hundred bucks, and she shouldn’t have to worry about it for a while.”
None of this surprised me. Gunnar was always willing to help someone out.
“And was that unusual, her calling you for help?”
Gunnar shrugged. “Not really. I’ve done some odd jobs for her before. Installed a ceiling fan, put in some extra outlets, fixed a pipe in the bathroom.”
I thought about this. If he was used to providing handyman services to her, what made this particular call seem out of the ordinary?
“When I was ordering the supplies, she asked how much they were going to cost,” he said, answering my unspoken question. “She seemed a little nervous and I asked her what was up. She said that money was pretty tight—something about some missing alimony payments—and that she might have to delay the repairs. The parts didn’t cost much, maybe a hundred dollars total, and I told her I would do the install free of charge.”
I let out a low whistle. “That was awfully nice of you.”
He offered a small smile. “I’m not one to kick people when they’re down, you know?”
I did know. But it didn’t make the gesture any less noble.
“Besides,” he added, “I know she has her trip planned for December, and I didn’t want her to worry about not being able to go.”
Trip? I didn’t know anything about a trip.
“What trip?” I asked.
He gave me a weird look. “Her trip to Paris. I thought you would have known about it, seeing as how you’re friends.”
“Oh, of course,” I said, nodding. It was the first I’d heard about it.
“This is the second time she’s tried to go and I didn’t want something like a home repair to keep her from being able to do it. She’s wanted to go to Paris for as long as she’s lived here.”
I forced a smile and nodded again. His words were a stinging reminder of just how much of an outsider I still was in Latney. I knew nothing of Vivian’s dreams, and this was the first time I’d heard she was planning a visit to France. We obviously weren’t close friends, but something like that was bound to come up in conversation with even the most casual of friends. But to acquaintances, to people you didn’t consider even part of your largest, widest social circle? It wasn’t discussed.
This knowledge definitely stung, but I tamped those feelings down.
I had other things to focus on. Bigger things.
Because Gunnar had just given me somethi
ng I didn’t have before.
A motive for Vivian to steal the money.
SIXTEEN
I needed to pay Vivian a visit.
I realized it right after Gunnar left the kitchen, and pondered it the whole time I heard the tiller’s engine roaring as he turned over the garden. And I thought about it the rest of the day and into the evening.
It was the only way I was going to get any answers. Of that, I was sure.
One thing I wasn’t sure of was what I was going to say. Did I barge inside and accuse her of stealing the money? Did I interrogate her about her finances, ask how she was affording her trip to Paris, and demand to know where she might have been last Friday when the check was cashed in Richmond? None of these seemed like the best approach, but I didn’t have a good reason to stop by.
I wasn’t going to let that stop me. I forced myself to take my time after waking up the next morning. I had a few cups of coffee, made myself an omelet, and perused one of the country living magazines I’d ordered subscriptions to, and tried not to focus on the chicken clock ticking away in the kitchen. The minute it was ten o’clock, I decided I’d waited long enough. I set my half empty coffee cup in the sink and slipped my shoes on.
I could come up with a reason to stop by, I told myself as I started the car and headed into town.
I had approximately ten minutes to figure it out.
I wasn’t the only one who had decided to pay Vivian a visit that day. I turned on to her street and there were already two cars parked in her driveway. I wondered if she was having a luncheon or something, which made me hesitate before pulling in behind those cars. Showing up unannounced while she was hosting a party had the potential to make my unexpected appearance even more awkward than it already threatened to be.
I inched forward, squinting as I tried to make out who was inside the house. But the sun was shining on the windows and bouncing back at me, making any attempt at spying impossible.
I was just about to give up and head for home when I noticed a bumper sticker on one of the cars in the driveway. It was for Dorothy Days.
