by Rula Sinara
“I appreciate the offer, but I don’t need anyone to fight my battles. And this is something I need to do alone, as soon as I figure out what I’m going to say to him.” Then she’d need to think about the future, one for which she was completely unprepared. “But no matter what he says or does, I’m scared,” she whispered, finally finding the courage to confess what she truly felt. “I have no idea how to be a mother.”
“Sure you do.” Fred reached across the table and took her hands in his. He was the only person who knew her secret wish, that after all these years her mother would finally come home and be a mother. “You have Annie. She’s a great role model.”
True. Problem was, Annie made it look easy. What if she, Emily, was a total disaster like their mother had been?
“Don’t go there, Em. You’ve always been great at everything you’ve ever chosen to do. In school, at the university, your work for the newspaper, your Small Town, Big Hearts blog.”
She knew he was trying to buoy her, but this was different. Raising a child wasn’t like writing a newspaper story or a blog. She had chosen to do those things, but she hadn’t chosen to become a mother. Motherhood had chosen her.
They were interrupted by the rattle of the barbershop door.
“My next customer. Lunchtime’s over already.” Fred sounded reluctant to wrap up their little tête-à-tête, as though she might not be able to move forward on her own. “You going to be okay?”
“Of course. I’ll be fine. I have to get back to work, too.” She needed to finish her article about this week’s town council meeting, put the finishing touches on centenarian Sig Sorrenson’s obituary and check her blog for comments. She waved Fred out of the back room. “Off you go. I’ll tidy up in here.”
Emily slipped out of the shop several minutes later, avoiding eye contact with Fred as he swirled a black plastic cape around the shoulders of his first customer of the afternoon. When she stepped onto the sidewalk, she narrowly missed a head-on collision with Mable Potter, her former high school English teacher and Riverton’s favorite octogenarian. The woman was struggling with her oversize purse, a large bag of groceries and the leash of her energetic mutt, Banjo.
“Hi, Mrs. Potter. Here, let me give you a hand.”
“Oh, could you, dear? I didn’t realize how many things I had in my shopping cart until it was rung through the checkout. I was getting low on milk, and I needed a dozen eggs and another bag of flour because my daughter, Libby, is coming all the way from Minneapolis tomorrow, and she loves my red velvet cake. I always bake one for her when she visits.”
“Your daughter’s a lucky lady.” Everyone in Riverton had sampled Mable Potter’s delicious dessert at one time or another, and everyone loved it. Emily shouldered her own bag and settled Mable’s grocery bag on one hip, surprised by its heft. “Come on, I’ll carry this home for you.”
“Thank you, dear. You’re good girls, you and your sisters. I ran into your father at the post office the other day, and he was telling me about what you’ve been up to. He’s awful proud of the three of you.”
Emily walked with Mrs. Potter, dawdled, really, for a block and a half down Main Street, then three blocks along Second Avenue. The route took them past Jack’s parents’ place, one of several stately two-and-a-half-story redbrick homes, complete with carriage houses that were a throwback to Riverton’s horse-and-buggy days. She kept her head down and her eyes averted, praying Jack’s mother didn’t appear. There’d be no avoiding a conversation. To her relief, they were able to slip by and make their way to Cottonwood Street, where Mrs. Potter lived.
As the dog sniffed every light standard, fence post and hydrant along the way, Emily only half listened to Mrs. Potter’s chatter about the weather, her daughter’s impending visit and Sig’s funeral. Luckily, the woman didn’t expect a response, which was just as well because Emily was now preoccupied with thoughts about her father. She adored him, and the prospect of telling him about her current situation was almost as terrifying as telling the baby’s father. In the absence of a mother, she had always looked to her dad for encouragement, support and validation. Jack was not going to be happy with this news, but his anger would pale in comparison to her father’s disappointment.
CHAPTER FOUR
JACK FELT A sense of ease the moment he saw the Welcome to Riverton sign. Its billboard proportions, depicting an old Mississippi paddle wheeler plying the waterway while a pair of majestic bald eagles soared overhead, might be disproportionate to the size of the population, but never its allegiance. Even people who’d left for the bright lights and busy streets of cities like Chicago were proud to call Riverton, Wisconsin, home.
Jack swung his Jeep onto Main Street. The two-story, redbrick buildings flanking the wide thoroughfare were as familiar today as they had been when he’d worked Saturdays as a stock boy at Henderson’s Hardware, bought sodas at Baxter’s Pharmacy and had his hair cut at Morris’s Barbershop.
He’d eaten his share of burgers and fries at the Riverton Café, which still existed, but was now under new ownership and called the Riverton Bar & Grill. He’d made that discovery the last time he’d been home because he and Emily Finnegan had gone to the restaurant for dinner. And there, in the back row of the Big River Theatre, he’d made it to first base for the first time with...? Huh. He’d been sixteen or thereabouts. She’d been hot, blonde, that year’s Riverboat Queen, if memory served. Why couldn’t he remember her name?
Did it matter? Not even a little bit. What mattered was this unexpected homecoming gave him a chance to see Emily again. He slowed as he drove past the Riverton Gazette office, glanced up at the windows of her second-floor apartment and told himself he was being an idiot to feel disappointed he didn’t see her.
He shook his head. “What? You expected her to be standing by the window, waiting for you?”
Now that he was here, he deeply regretted not calling her. In some ways, it seemed like a lifetime ago. In reality, it had been—what?—six weeks. Or was it longer? Maybe eight? Too long to expect her to simply pick up where they’d left off. She probably thought he was a first-class jerk.
Would she understand when he explained how he’d been catapulted into the most bizarre triple-homicide investigation of his career, sometimes working more than twenty-four hours before realizing he hadn’t slept? And when he did nod off, usually for just a few hours, his dreams were crowded with images of three innocent people, their cold, bruised flesh cut so deep, he wished they’d already been dead by the time the wounds had been inflicted.
Slapping cuffs on the killer should have provided some satisfaction. It hadn’t. Instead, he had hoped the guy would resist arrest, give him a reason to pump a couple rounds into his chest. Jack hated himself for wanting that, but not as much as he’d hated the narcissistic sicko who had held his head high and smiled widely, preening for the TV cameras on the day of his arraignment. That’s when Jack knew. He was bitter, burned out and he needed a change. He wanted a normal life. He wasn’t sure what that was, but he wanted a woman like Emily Finnegan to be part of it.
She was bound to be irate with him for not calling and he couldn’t fault her for that, but he would make it up to her. As soon as he finished interviewing Rose Daniels this afternoon, he would take Emily out for dinner. Pasta with marinara sauce, coffee and a lemon meringue tart for dessert. He never forgot details like that, and he remembered other things, too. The way she’d smiled when he’d reached across the table and covered her hand with his. The way she’d sighed after their first kiss, the way that kiss had led to another, and another, and...
He remembered, all right, and he would put those memories to good use tonight. He grinned at his reflection in the rearview mirror, ran a hand over the stubble on his jaw. He should probably get cleaned up before he interviewed this witness. From what he’d read in Rose’s file, he had a better shot at getting her to open up if
he used his good cop routine. His current five o’clock shadow and too-long scruff were more in keeping with the bad-cop version of Jack Evans. Besides, the longer this witness languished in a cell, the more likely she’d be to spill the details once he had her sitting in the interview room.
He had a hunch that Emily preferred the good cop, too.
He swung right on Second Avenue, circled the block and angled into a parking spot in front of Morris’s. Again, he glanced up at Emily’s apartment across the street, relieved this time she wasn’t by the window. Better to wait and catch her unawares. He would use the element of surprise to get her attention, apologize and then tell her about the case that had consumed him for the past however many weeks.
Jack strode between the red, white and blue striped poles that flanked the barbershop door, wondering if Chicago had any old-fashioned barbershops like this one. It must have, but he couldn’t remember having seen one. He certainly hadn’t looked for one. Morris’s was...normal. Familiar.
Fred Morris sat in one of a pair of ancient barbershop chairs, facing the mirror, reading a newspaper. Jack pushed the door open, the sound of the bell causing Fred to glance up. There was no mistaking the flicker of deer-in-the-headlights surprise in the man’s eyes, but it was gone by the time he swiveled around and stood up.
“Jack. Ah, good to see you. What...ah...what brings you to Riverton?”
The guy was a bundle of nerves.
“A case I’m working on.”
“Right, right. So...ah...what can I do you for you?”
Seriously? “Shave, haircut.”
“Right, of course. Here, sit.” He moved around to the back of the chair and held it while Jack shrugged out of his jacket. “Here, I’ll take that.”
After he sat down, Fred swung the chair to face the mirror, and Jack watched the man’s reflection as he scurried about, stuffing his hastily folded newspaper into a wall-mounted magazine rack. He hung Jack’s jacket on an old coat tree.
Jack didn’t know Fred well, admittedly, but he didn’t remember him being this jumpy, acting as though he had something to hide. Besides, what could he be hiding? Come to think of it, Fred was a longtime friend of Emily’s. Would she have told him about the night she and Jack had spent together?
Awkward. Not to mention unlikely. He was jumping to conclusions for which he had no evidence. He watched Fred take his cell phone out of his pants pocket, tap out a quick message and put it back.
“Okay. A shave and a haircut.” Fred, suddenly all business and apparently recovered from his case of nerves, shook out a black plastic cape and draped it over Jack’s chest and shoulders.
* * *
MABLE POTTER LIVED in a quaint one-and-a-half-story house on Cottonwood Street, in the middle of a block of identical dwellings. Over the years, the homes had been personalized with a picket fence here, a glassed-in veranda there, window boxes, skylights and paint colors that spanned the rainbow. The clapboard of Mrs. Potter’s house was salmon pink, the trim snowy white. In the back corner of the yard was a garden shed. Mable’s husband, who’d passed away more than a decade ago, had designed it to look like a miniature version of the main house, capturing every detail right down to the lace-curtained windows.
As a child, Emily had daydreamed about playing house in the Potters’ garden shed. Today, her current reality made her wonder how in the world she was going to manage a baby on her own in her cramped one-bedroom apartment over the newspaper office.
Emily followed the elderly woman through the gate and up the steps. Mrs. Potter opened the front door and stooped to unfasten the dog’s leash. Instead of going inside, though, the scruffy, wiry-haired dog of indeterminate breed let out a yip, raced back down the steps and disappeared around the corner of the house, a black-and-white blur in pursuit of a squirrel.
“I don’t know why he chases them,” the woman said. “He’s never caught one. And I think they come in the yard on purpose, simply to torment him.”
Emily laughed at the idea of a ragtag scurry of squirrels plotting to outwit a hapless predator. Possibly something she could work into a story for her blog. “Where would you like me to put the groceries?” she asked.
“Would you mind carrying them into the kitchen for me?”
“Of course not.” Emily noticed Mrs. Potter hadn’t used a key, which meant she hadn’t locked the door when she’d left the house to go shopping. Not usually a big concern in Riverton, especially during the daytime. Still, the woman did live alone, and things around town had mysteriously started to disappear. “Did you forget to lock the door when you went out?” she asked, deciding to play it low-key.
“Oh, I never bother. This is Riverton, after all, and Banjo’s a good watchdog.”
“I’m sure he is.” Except Banjo hadn’t been here, and Emily suspected his watchfulness extended only to keeping small rodents at bay. Still, everything in the house looked as it should, not a doily out of place.
Emily set the bag of groceries on the kitchen table and glanced through the window to the backyard where the dog ran in circles around the trunk of an oak tree, tormented by the squirrel chittering at him from an overhanging branch. Instinctively, she pulled her camera from her bag, zoomed in on the scene and snapped a series of photos.
“Are you going to put those pictures in the newspaper?” Mable asked.
“No, but I’d like to post them on my blog if that’s okay with you.”
“A blog? I don’t know what that is, but it’s fine with me.”
Emily watched with amusement and mild curiosity as the woman carried the kettle to the sink, filled it and then put it in the refrigerator.
“Would you like to stay for tea?”
“Ah...” Emily did her best not to laugh out loud. “I’d love to stay, Mrs. Potter, but not today, thanks. I have to get back to the office and catch up on a few things.” Now that she had talked to Fred, she needed to set her sisters straight and then plan an unwelcome trip to Chicago. “But I’ll be happy to drop by early next week,” she was quick to add, noting the woman’s disappointment. The weekly edition of the Gazette came out every Wednesday morning and she always had a little breathing room after that.
“That’ll be nice, dear. I’ll save you a slice of my red velvet cake.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.” She left Mable to put away her groceries, wondering how long it would take the poor woman to figure out why it was taking so long for the kettle to boil. Outside, the standoff between dog and squirrel continued to play out in the yard. Not able to resist, she followed the stepping-stones that meandered from the back porch to the garden shed and walked up onto the narrow veranda. The lace curtains were drawn in the shed’s windows, and the interior was dark. Emily wasn’t sure why, but she reached for the doorknob. It was locked. Interesting. Well, no one would be able to steal the old woman’s wheelbarrow and watering can.
Her cell phone buzzed as she was making her way around the side of the house to the front gate. It was a text message from Fred.
The jig is up. Get over here. Now.
What? How? Had one of her sisters gone into the shop to talk to Fred, even though they had both promised not to utter a word about this to anyone? Or had one of them told their father? If anyone had blabbed about this, it would be CJ. Ugh. The little busybody. Emily was going to wring her neck. As for her father, was he at the barbershop now? Annie had said he’d be driving Isaac into town for a birthday party that afternoon. Emily shoved the phone into the side pocket of her bag and set out for a brisk walk back to Morris’s. Time to face the music, again.
* * *
SOME OF THE tension that had knotted in Jack’s neck and shoulders during the drive from Chicago loosened a little.
“How long are you in town for?” Fred asked.
“A couple of days.”
“Nice. You’ll see yo
ur family, I guess.”
“Plan to.”
“Your dad was in for a trim last week.” Fred tucked a towel around the neckline of the cape. “Haven’t seen your mother in a while, though. How’s she doing?”
“Oh, you know, she’s the same as always.”
Jack didn’t actually know that, although it’s what he assumed. Norma Evans would always do the things she’d always done. Keeping the house where he and his sister had been raised, which was far too big for her and his father, as neat as a pin. Reminding his father that salads were good for him and pipe smoking was not. Volunteering at church bazaars and literacy book drives, organizing care packages for troops in Afghanistan and Iraq.
Walter Evans was retired from his lifelong career as maintenance supervisor for the Town of Riverton. It used to be his job to keep the fire trucks, police cars and snowplows running and on the road. Now he spent most of his time in his workshop at the back of the garage next to the house, tinkering with his twenty-year-old Ford F-250, fixing bicycles and repairing broken appliances and old lawn mowers for everyone in the neighborhood. The shop was the only place where Walt could listen to NPR uninterrupted and puff on his pipe without censure.
Jack stared up at the tin-tiled ceiling as Fred applied pre-shave cream to his face. The question about his parents was a harsh reminder that Jack had been doing a lousy job of staying in touch with them. He needed to figure a way around the tunnel vision he developed every time he worked a major case.
“And now for the towel,” Fred said.
Jack heard the steamer open, then gave an inward sigh as Fred placed the hot towel on his face. The heat seeped along his jaw, up his cheeks and across his brows.
“There we go. Give that a few minutes, and then we’ll get started.”
Jack’s thoughts drifted from his family to the interview he needed to do this afternoon and then to Emily, to seeing her again, to holding her, to...
The clang of the bell on the barbershop door cut into his thoughts.
