by Julie Hyzy
Hope was raw in Adam’s expression. This man had made it clear that he cared for me. I hadn’t found it in me to return his feelings. Not yet.
I took a breath. I’d been about to say, “Yeah, it does,” but my words skidded to a stop as—without warning—Jack’s image popped into my brain. I hesitated.
“It’s okay,” he said with a look on his face that made me wonder if he could read my mind. The bright anticipation in his eyes faded and he worked up a smile. “No pressure.”
“I am very happy to see you,” I said, but we both knew my response was lame and two seconds too late.
What was wrong with me? Why had thoughts of Jack suddenly burst into my consciousness at that moment? I knew better than to try to sort my confusion out while we stood there staring at each other. Whatever I needed to work out, I would do on my own time. Not now, not after Adam had flown in for a surprise visit. The last thing I wanted to do was to hurt this man.
He had very expressive, very dark brows. They’d tightened for a moment, but he relaxed. “It’s okay,” he repeated. “We’ll talk, maybe.” He shrugged as though it made no difference. I knew better. “Or we won’t. Right now let’s enjoy the wonderful dinner you prepared.”
He’d broken the tension between us, yet again. I’d shared some of my relationship history with him, and he’d shared some of his. I didn’t know enough, however, to understand what in his life had given him the patience he consistently demonstrated with me.
Adam peeked under the pan cover and gave the mushroom sauce an appreciative sniff. “Mm-mm,” he said.
“It’s nearly ready,” I said. “I need to warm the green beans.” Pointing to the covered saucepan at the back of the stovetop, I asked, “Would you mind?”
“You have a spare apron?” He held fingers splayed in front of his chest. “I wouldn’t want to mess up this one-of-a-kind outfit.”
I laughed at that. He was wearing a black T-shirt and black jeans. I’d rarely seen him in anything else. “Hey.” I handed him a striped apron, as another thought occurred to me. “Do you have a bag? A suitcase? You are planning to stay, aren’t you?”
Adam’s eyes were wide open windows to his feelings, and for the second time this evening, I watched anticipation dance behind his outwardly calm expression. He tied his apron behind his back and shrugged again. “I didn’t want to presume—”
“I have the spare room all ready for you,” I said quickly, in case he’d mistaken my meaning. “You’re welcome to it. How long can you stay?”
If the mention of the spare room disappointed him in any way, he didn’t let it show. “A couple of days,” he said. “If that’s all right with you. I figured you’ll have to go back to work Monday, and the band is overdue for rehearsal.”
“No commitments this weekend?”
“We had a couple of things lined up, but when my aunt died I canceled them. The guys in the band weren’t too thrilled with me for doing that, but family’s family.”
“How are the other guys?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No. You first. I want to hear all about what’s been happening here.”
As we finished preparing the meal and sat down to eat, I brought him up to speed on everything, providing details I hadn’t had time to explain over the phone or via e-mail.
In the middle of the telling, he said, “Wait,” around a mouthful of chicken. “Let me get this straight: You found two secret passages?”
“Two,” I said. “Within a week.”
He finished chewing. “Ever see that old movie Where Angels Go, Trouble Follows?”
“You mean the Rosalind Russell film?” I asked.
He speared another forkful and popped it into his mouth, then pointed the empty utensil at me.
“So, I’m an angel?” I worked up the best indignant look I could muster. “You’d better not be suggesting that I’m trouble.”
He pursed his lips in mock denial. “Heaven forbid.”
We discussed the murder and the shortlist of likely suspects for a while longer before I asked again what was new in his life. Adam had a few updates to share about his bandmates, all of whom I’d met, and he talked about their agent, a man whose name I’d recently helped clear.
“All in all, things are good,” Adam said. “Jerry sends his regards.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
We tidied the table, put the leftovers away for Bruce and Scott to enjoy when they got home, and as I started doing the dishes, Adam picked up a cloth to dry.
“You know,” he said, suddenly shy again, “we’ve been opening for the Curling Weasels a lot here in the East. We may have the chance to open for them in L.A. If the Weasels’ manager agrees, it would be a real game-changer.”
“Wow,” I said, “SlickBlade could become a household name.”
“I’m a little afraid of that.”
My hands were immersed up to my wrists in warm, sudsy water. I pulled them up to sponge a plate clean. “Isn’t that the whole point? Isn’t that what you’ve been working for all these years?” I rinsed the plate and glanced up at him.
His expression clouded as his dark brows tightened. When Adam frowned, it was a full-face effort. Deep lines formed around his downturned mouth and the crinkles around his eyes seemed to double. “I told you once that the guys are more into that stuff than I am.”
“I know,” I said, “but you also said that a measure of fame allows you to do what you’ve always wanted—to create music for others to enjoy.”
“Exactly, but I’m torn. You know the guys I’m working with. They’re great but their priorities are all screwed up.” He finished drying one of the bowls and placed it gently on the cleared kitchen table. With a wry grin, he turned back to face me. “Like I should talk about anyone else’s priorities and what’s right or wrong. Who am I to judge?”
I gave an encouraging nod. “I know what you’re trying to say.”
“This is the most talented group of musicians I’ve ever worked with. We have a lot of potential. More than I’d ever dreamed of. The thing is, the guys look to me to lead. About—everything. I handle the bookings, the business. I keep them herded and as sober as I can when we’re on the road. I’m like the band dad.”
“There are worse roles in life.”
“True.” He picked up a plate as I turned on the faucet to rinse another dish. “Here’s the thing. Another two years, maybe three, and I think SlickBlade will be at the top of its game. I think we’ll have achieved enough to keep the guys happy and I think we will have earned enough to allow me to step into more of a consulting role.”
I shut the faucet. “You’d stop performing?”
When he looked at me, he seemed to be trying to push every bit of meaning into his gaze. “I don’t want to be on the road for the rest of my life. I want to write music and I want to see it performed, yes, but I don’t have to be the one performing. I have life plans.”
“You want a family.”
He nodded and his lips pushed together as though he was afraid to say more, but then he added, “I want to settle down. Somewhere quiet.”
“Like Emberstowne?”
“Yeah.”
I’d held Adam at arm’s length from the very start. Why he continued to pursue me, why he remained so patient and trusting when I’d given him almost no reason to do so, had me mystified. Yet, I enjoyed his company. Very much.
“After living in New York for so long, I’m afraid you’d find life dull here.”
He studied me, as he often did. “I don’t think I would.”
I finished rinsing the final utensil, shut off the water again, and dried my hands. “Adam, you and I need to talk.”
“We do,” he said as he dried the last of the pile and untied his apron. “But not right now. Show me the secret passageway first.”
Chapter 24
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Adam and I headed out the next morning to walk into town. As we exited the back door, I wagged my finger at Bootsie. “You behave yourself for Aunt Hillary today, okay?”
“Aunt Hillary?” Adam asked when I’d locked up. “When did that happen?”
We made our way around to the front of the house, where I waved hello to the workers who were setting up for the day on my front porch. We took a left at the end of my driveway. At breakfast, I’d asked Adam if he minded visiting the historical society offices this morning. He’d told me that he was at my disposal for the entire weekend.
“I don’t know what’s come over Hillary,” I said. “She’s here every day except Sunday, and has been tolerable for a change.”
Before he could respond, I placed a hand on his arm. “I take that back. Tolerable makes it sound as though I still can’t stand her. That’s not it at all. She’s actually been pleasant to be around. It’s as though she’s become a completely different person.”
“People learn to adapt,” Adam said, pulling my hand into the crook of his elbow. “That’s been the rule of this world from the beginning of time: Change or die.”
“Unfortunately, there’s been far too much dying going on around here lately.” I mulled that for a moment, then added, “I think it helps that Hillary knows the truth now. She’s regarded me differently since she found out.”
When that had happened, I’d expected Hillary to freak out. As Bennett’s stepdaughter, she’d been vocal and vehement about trying to get Bennett to change his will. She wanted him to leave all of Marshfield to her, rather than bequeath it to the City of Emberstowne, as things were currently set up. If I were, indeed, related to Bennett by blood, that would put me higher on the heir scale than Hillary. Not that I wanted anything to do with an inheritance. If it were up to me, I would choose to have Bennett live forever.
Adam placed his hand over mine as we strolled. “She’s probably beginning to realize you make a better ally than enemy.”
“Could be,” I agreed. “Let’s hope her good feelings for me aren’t temporary.”
“My feelings for you aren’t temporary,” Adam said quietly. He didn’t make eye contact and didn’t react when I turned to face him. All he did was press his hand a little tighter against mine.
We walked in silence, and as we did, I tried to examine what it was that was holding me back from immersing myself fully in this relationship. I didn’t want to lead Adam on if I wasn’t interested, and yet, I didn’t want to let go. There was something about the man that drew me in. He was kind, interesting, and insightful. But then why when I considered moving forward with him, did I suddenly think about Jack and freeze? I was confused.
“What are you hoping to find at the historical society office?” Adam asked, breaking into my thoughts.
I took in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “I’d planned to do a little research at the library, but I found out that they haven’t digitized their files yet. Not fully, that is. At this point, searchable records go back only three years.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Any mention of Dr. Keay in local publications from five years ago. Stories about the scandal, his time in jail, Joyce’s role in getting him out on bail. Whatever I can find.”
“They don’t keep copies of newspapers from back then?”
“They do,” I said, “but the library started sending old files off-site for scanning. They’re working backward chronologically, which is why they have only the most recent three years done. The next set—which happens to be the time frame I’m interested in—is currently out of reach. But,” I added, “the librarian assured me that the historical society still has quite a bit available in hard copy. I’m hoping to find what I’m looking for there.”
“You don’t mind me tagging along?”
“Hardly. I’m more worried you’ll be bored out of your skull.”
He tugged me a little bit closer. “No chance of that.”
When we got to the historical society, Wes practically threw open the front door. “Did you hear the news?” he asked. “I was about to call you.”
“What news?”
“Flynn.” His face was flushed, his eyes wild. “He arrested Joyce Swedburg.”
“What?” I asked, feeling slow. “When? How did you find out?”
“She came in and he arrested her.” Wes pointed toward the floor. “Right here. They left like two minutes ago.”
My head was spinning. “What did she come in for?”
He gave an exaggerated shrug. “I never got the chance to find out. She walked in, I said hello. I was about to ask how I could help her, but next thing I know, three officers ran in, pointing their guns. Flynn handcuffed her, read her her rights, and dragged her out to his car.”
“Joyce?” I found myself staring out the window at the curb, trying to imagine how it had all gone down. “That’s crazy,” I said. “Last I heard there wasn’t enough to warrant an arrest. What other evidence did Flynn come up with?”
Wes’s face was a mixture of incredulity and resignation. “He didn’t tell me anything.”
“I don’t get it,” I said. Turning to the two men, I repeated myself. “I simply don’t get it. What changed since yesterday?”
Wes shook himself, as though to throw off his confusion. “Where are my manners?” he asked rhetorically. He extended his hand. “You must be Adam,” he said as they shook. “It’s nice to meet you. Grace has told me about you.”
Adam shot me a pleased, inquisitive look, before sizing Wes up the way men do when they first meet. “And she’s told me a great deal about how you’re helping her with both the artifacts at her house and discovering the passage at Marshfield.”
Wes’s face broke into a grin. “It’s been a fascinating week, that’s for sure. I can’t say I’ve ever been involved in anything this exciting before.”
Adam put his arm around me. “Neither have I.”
Uncomfortable with the sudden attention, I asked Wes more about Joyce’s arrest.
“How did she handle it?” I asked. “I mean, the idea of bringing in a team with guns and taking her away in handcuffs. I can’t imagine.”
“For the first time in her life, I think Joyce was shocked speechless,” Wes said. “I almost felt sorry for her. She cooperated like she was in a daze.”
“I don’t get it,” I said.
Wes frowned. “I don’t see her as a murderer, do you?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “She’s too . . . posh for that.”
“I agree,” I said. “I can’t see her overpowering her ex-husband and injecting him with alcohol, simply because she wants to keep her house. I get the feeling she’d view the whole act of killing another person as menial work. She’d avoid it.”
“People have killed for less,” Adam said.
“That’s for sure,” I agreed, “but even though the motive is strong, it’s hard to picture her engaging in any sort of physical altercation. She’s the type of woman who would worry about breaking a nail.”
“Exactly,” Wes said.
Adam cleared his throat. “Sort of like Hillary before she began work on your project?”
I looked up to find him giving me a grin. “Point taken. Which is why I suppose we can’t rule Joyce out completely.”
“People change,” he reminded me.
“You should have seen her expression when Flynn twisted her arms behind her back. She was completely thrown. I thought she might even cry.” Wes looked at me. “You know that never happens.”
“Did she put up a fight?”
Wes gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Like I said, she seemed to be in shock. Like the whole thing was a dream and she was sleepwalking.” He stared out the front door. “I’m glad you came in. I feel bad for her. I mean, no one was even considering her until you and I pulled out the floor pl
ans and found that trapdoor.”
I understood. “If she’s innocent, I’m sure she’ll prove it. Remember, she’s a savvy attorney. Once she’s at the station, her first priority will be to contact a lawyer. I have no doubt she has a colleague looking into her release right now.”
“I hope so,” he said.
“There’s one other thing you’re forgetting,” I said.
“What’s that?” Wes asked.
“She may actually be guilty.”
“Good point.” Rubbing his hands together as though to wash away the subject for the time being, Wes shifted gears. “How can I help you both this morning?”
I told him what I was looking for, specifying the dates surrounding Dr. Keay’s scandal five years earlier. “Do you have any documents, like old newspapers or things like that, that might tell me what else was going on in Emberstowne at that time?” I explained what I’d hoped to find at the library.
“Sure we do,” he said. “Follow me.” Wes led us across the space to a door at the back of the room marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. He opened it and gestured for us to follow. “What you see up front is what makes for the best display. Anyone looking to do real historical research knows that we keep the good stuff back here.”
The area was huge, with high, bare windows that streamed sunlight over the tops of darkly scarred bookshelves. “Wow,” I said as the commingled scents of old paper, sun-warmed dust, and fresh coffee assailed my nose. “I didn’t know the offices stretched this far back.”
“The years you’re looking for are right here,” Wes said as he rounded a far corner. “My predecessor, whoever he or she was, wasn’t as fastidious as I am about protecting documents.” He wagged his head. “Many of our old newspapers were exposed to moisture. They eventually molded and had to be discarded. When I took over, I made sure that we stored everything in acid-free storage, far from any contact with water. Unfortunately”—he turned and offered a rueful look—“I’m worried that the dates you’re looking for might be among those that were tossed.”
“Oh no.”
