Em ran her finger over the photograph encased in plastic. “It’s Tina. This must be where she was killed.”
A chill washed over him. Tina Fowler had died alone in this very spot. He swung the flashlight back and forth. To the naked eye, there was nothing remarkable about this stretch of country road, but that didn’t stop a bitter, coppery taste from invading his mouth.
“Look,” Em said, fingering a small bouquet of drooping, wilted flowers. “Somebody must maintain this. I thought the waitress said Tina’s family left the area.”
“Yeah, I think you’re right about her family. But the folks in this area have been raising money in her name for a long time. The waitress from the diner could be the one keeping it up.”
Em pressed her finger to the cross and traced each letter in Tina’s name.
He crouched down.“Em, we should go. I’m not even sure where we are, and this snow doesn’t look like it’s going to let up anytime soon.”
She let her finger linger as flakes of snow replaced the ones she had just brushed away. She met his gaze. “I think I’ve been here before.”
He knew she was desperate to find out what happened the night she was injured. It didn’t even matter that she was still able to play the piano and violin. That night, that injury had transformed her entire world and stolen twelve years from her. But what if she was grasping at straws, looking for any connection to that night to try to explain what had happened?
He dusted the snow off her shoulders. “We’re pretty far from the hollow. I don’t know how you could have gotten here.”
“Someone could have taken me here,” she shot back.
“Possibly, Em, but why? Why would anyone take you anywhere?”
“I don’t know, but I want to go back to the diner in Garrett and talk to that waitress.”
He took her hand and helped her to her feet. “Nothing is open now. We can come back in a couple of days. I just don’t—”
“Don’t what?” she asked.
“I don’t want you to attach all your hopes on Tina Fowler. I think it’s smarter to focus on what you remember: the bridge, tall men. It’s more concrete.”
She nodded. “I know what you’re saying. I just have this feeling that my injury and her death may have something in common.”
“I agree. Both events happened around the same time, but that doesn’t have to mean that they’re connected.”
She shivered and crossed her arms. “Do you always have to go into lawyer mode?”
“We need to look at all possibilities from every angle.” He let out a sigh. “You’re freezing. I’m freezing. Let’s find our way out of wherever the hell we are and get back to Langley Park. We’re going to look into this. I know you want answers, I want them, too. But there’s nothing more we can do tonight.”
25
Em sat stock-still and gripped the dashboard.
“Breathe, Em,” Michael said. He squeezed her knee and cut the ignition.
After returning home late Thanksgiving evening, they had used a map and the navigation app on Michael’s phone to determine Tina Fowler’s roadside memorial was located on the outskirts of the abandoned town of LaRoe.
The country road looked different in the daylight. The late fall mood swings of Mother Nature meant a blustery night could be followed by a sunny morning. The snow from Thanksgiving had vanished, leaving the tall grass to sway crispy dry and muted yellow in the Saturday morning breeze.
Em released her breath. She had been keyed up since their trip to the hollow. Everything was moving so fast and at the same time, so slowly.
In a matter of weeks, she had found her way back to music and back to Michael. That in itself should have been enough, but the clawing need to learn what happened that night at Sadie’s Hollow wouldn’t go away. The images and sensations she remembered taunted her like a prize dangling just out of reach.
She stared at the small wooden cross. It was easy to see Tina’s name carved into the wood without the veil of snowy darkness. Her gaze trailed down to the vase secured to the bottom of the roadside memorial where a fresh bouquet of sunflowers welcomed the morning.
“Those are new,” she said, opening the car door.
“The flowers?” Michael asked, following her over to the cross.
“Yeah, when we were here on Thanksgiving, the flowers were wilted. And I think they were roses. It was hard to tell. But they weren’t sunflowers. I know that for sure.”
Michael fingered a fresh petal. “You’re right. Whatever was here got switched out.”
“What do you think that means?”
“It could just be some local. Maybe someone in town for Thanksgiving who knew the Fowlers.”
Em stared into the field of dried prairie grass, but an old bur oak reaching bare limbs into the sky, thick with age, caught her eye. Someone had come along and nailed strips of wood to the trunk, creating a makeshift ladder leading up to the branches. The wood looked almost as old as the tree. It was bleached gray from countless days weathering the Kansas wind and sun, and the nails used to secure the slats had rusted to a burnt red that bled into the surrounding wood.
“This must have been someone’s climbing tree,” Michael said. He pulled on one of the rungs. “It’s still pretty solid.”
Em ran her hand across one of the lower rungs. Instantly, her body felt sticky with sweat. Her skin itched. Her vision doubled, then tripled like a kaleidoscope, and nausea washed over her in thick, hot waves.
“Em, are you okay?”
She leaned against Michael and clutched his jacket. She took a few shaky breaths, and her vision evened out.
“You’re white as a ghost,” he said, scooping her up into his arms.
She blinked slowly. “I’m all right. Put me down. I need to touch that tree again.”
“Hell, no,” he answered. “Maybe you picked something up. You weren’t feeling good during Thanksgiving dinner. You could have a virus or something.”
“No, it doesn’t feel like that.” The strange buzzing in her head was back. “Please, Michael. Set me down. I’m okay.”
He didn’t look convinced.
She stroked his cheek. “Really, I’m okay. I just got this bizarre flash when I ran my hand over that weird piece of wood.”
He set her down. “If you go all woozy again we’re heading to the nearest hospital.”
She gave him a nod then ran her hands down the tree, feeling the rough bump of bark and then the lift and fall of her fingertips as they moved up and down and passed over the makeshift ladder.
She made another pass at half the speed. “I’ve felt this before.”
“Are you sure?” Michael asked.
“I think so. Are there any trees with wooden slats nailed on like this in Langley Park? Could I be mistaking this tree for one we climbed as kids?”
Michael ran his hand down the tree trunk. “Not that I can think of.”
She took a step back and surveyed the tree in its entirety. “What do you think this means?”
“I don’t know, Em. This tree is old and the wooden rungs nailed into the trunk could be ten, twenty, maybe even thirty years old or older. It’s possible, if you were somehow here the night you were injured, that this tree could have looked and felt just like this.”
He was right. The tree looked like it had withstood the test of time. Kansas was prone to wild storms and catastrophic tornados—neither of which had uprooted this majestic oak.
She met Michael’s gaze. He wasn’t playing devil’s advocate with her premonitions today. Maybe he could feel it, too. Tina Fowler may have died here. But there was more to it than just a tragic early morning hit and run. She knew it, and she could sense Michael coming on board.
He put an arm around her shoulder. “I think we need to go to the diner.”
* * *
The main drag through Garrett, Kansas, was bustling with activity Saturday morning. Families cooped up indoors over the Thanksgiving holiday were out in force enjoying
the shops and sunshine.
They entered the diner, and Em stared at the photograph of Tina.
“A few seats are open at the counter by the register,” Michael said.
Em spied the seats, but her gaze was pulled to the oddly familiar glass jars of what looked like homemade jam sitting in neat rows near the picture of Tina Fowler.
Were those jars there the last time they’d visited the diner? She couldn’t remember.
She took the seat next to Michael and scanned the room, hoping the waitress they’d met a few weeks ago was working today. What was the woman’s name? Was it Pamela? Patty? All she could remember was the curlicue design of the letter “P” on her name tag.
“Can I start you two off with some coffee?”
Em swung around on the stool and saw the curly lettering on the waitress’ apron.
Peggy.
“Sure, that would be great,” Michael answered.
“Do you remember us?” Em asked. “We were in a few weeks ago.”
The waitress finished pouring their coffee and looked up. “I do. I do. You donated quite a bit to our collection for Tina. How are you folks doing?”
“We’re good,” Em answered. Her heartbeat kicked up a notch. “We were driving through the area and saw Tina Fowler’s roadside memorial. Does someone in town keep it up?”
Peggy leaned against the counter. “That is a bit of a mystery. I don’t know who keeps it up. I’ve asked around plenty, but I’ve never figured out who it is. It’s a kind gesture, for sure.”
“How long has it been there?” Michael asked.
“Goodness!” Peggy drummed her fingers. “It’s been there for as long as I can remember. Why do you ask?”
“We noticed that the flowers were switched out,” Em answered.
Peggy nodded. “I don’t get out that way much. Nothing much out there but a few farms, these days. It’s nice to know someone’s still honoring Tina’s memory.”
“Do you think the farmers are maintaining the memorial?” Michael asked.
“I don’t think so. Like I said, I’ve been asking for years. I think I’ve asked every soul in the area. Nobody’s copped to it yet. I like to think it’s a guardian angel,” Peggy said as her gaze swung toward the door and the sound of jingling bells. The deep creases around her eyes crinkled as she smiled. “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”
“Hi, Peggy! Is my jam order ready?”
Em recognized that voice. She turned to see Mindy Lancaster. Mindy met her gaze, and a stunned expression passed over her mousy features.
“Do you all know each other?” Peggy asked.
“We do,” Em answered.
“Nice to see you, Mindy,” Michael said, offering her his seat, but she waved him off.
Peggy loaded several jars of jam into a cardboard box. “We are so proud of our Mindy. She won all sorts of awards for playing the piano as a girl. Earned a scholarship to a fancy school in Boston.”
Mindy’s posture stiffened. “That was a long time ago, Peg.”
“Mindy’s husband, Tom, was my violin teacher,” Em said, hoping this nugget of information would keep Peggy talking.
Peggy clapped her hands. “What a small world! Tom is one of my favorites. He brought our Mindy back to Kansas. Is he still with the symphony?”
Mindy gave a sharp nod. “He is.”
“Tom always loved my jam,” Peggy said, directing the comment to nobody in particular.
Then it clicked. Em had seen those distinctive jams before. The Lancasters gave them out to their students as holiday gifts.
“What brings you to Garrett?” Mindy asked, but Peggy intervened.
“They were in a few weeks ago for lunch and contributed to Tina’s 4-H collection. They came across her memorial and were wondering who kept it up.”
Mindy glanced at Tina’s photo. “Such a loss.”
Peggy closed the box and slid it toward Mindy.
Michael placed a few bills on the counter, then picked up the box. “It was nice to see you again, Peggy.” He shifted his gaze to Mindy. “Let me carry this out for you.”
Mindy fingered the cast still encasing her wrist and gave Michael a polite nod.
They followed Mindy out to her car, and Michael set the box in her trunk. He went to close it, but Mindy motioned for him to stop.
“Here,” she opened the box and handed them each a jar of jam. “Tom and I wanted to thank you both for helping out with the music at the Senior Living Campus.” She smiled, and her features softened. “Em, your mother always used to tell me how much she enjoyed this jam. Would you like another jar to bring back with you to Australia? I imagine you’re eager to get back.”
Em tried to read the woman. Mindy Lancaster had never warmed to her. She wasn’t the kind of person that took a shine to anyone—except Tom.
Em shared a glance with Michael. “I’m not going back to Australia, but I’d be happy to ship the jam to my mom. I do remember her liking it.”
Mindy pursed her lips. “I don’t want to overstep myself, but your dad told Tom that he was going to be selling your house.”
“Em’s going to stay with me,” Michael said.
A saccharine smile graced Mindy’s lips. “Isn’t that sweet. The boy next door ends up with the girl next door. I’ll be sure to let Tom know. He’ll be thrilled you’re staying.” She glanced at her car. “Well, I better be getting back. I don’t want to miss Tom’s performance this afternoon.”
Mindy turned to leave, but Em caught her by the arm. “Is it hard?”
Mindy frowned. “Is what hard?”
Em met her gaze. When she was a little girl, the Lancasters had seemed so much older. But Mindy couldn’t be more than fifty now. Their age difference, which couldn’t be more than twenty years at the most, didn’t seem like such a gulf. “I never thought about it until now, but you moved back to Kansas for Tom, so that he could play with the symphony, didn’t you?”
A blush bloomed crimson on Mindy’s pale cheeks as she turned to close the trunk. “Crazier things have been done for love.”
* * *
Em twisted the bottom of her sleeve.
“What are you thinking?” Michael asked.
They were more than halfway home, and she had been turning over the events of the morning in her head. “I’m trying to put it all together in a way that makes sense.”
Michael nodded but kept his gaze on the road. “The one thing we know for sure is that your injury occurred at or around the same time Tina Fowler was killed.”
“Right,” Em said, mentally ticking this off in her head.
“And something about that tree near the roadside memorial felt familiar to you.”
“Yeah, I can’t put my finger on it. But it did seem familiar.”
They lapsed into a pocket of silence. The pieces were there. She just wasn’t seeing the whole picture.
Em tried to lay it out. “Mindy Lancaster is Kyle’s aunt. But Mindy and Kyle’s mom aren’t close. At least that’s what Kyle told me the other day.”
“Yeah, but remember, Em, families are complex. When Anita’s husband died, there could have been a family dispute about money or property. That kind of stuff happens in families every day. It’s unfortunate, but not uncommon for family members to be estranged.”
She rubbed the back of her neck.“What about everything Mrs. Teller mentioned?”
Michael started to say something, but she stopped him. “I know, I know, Mrs. Teller suffers from dementia and thinks we’re all in the Garrett High School homecoming parade with her ninety percent of the time. But it really seemed like she knew Anita Benson from another time. Remember, she called her the ‘young Mrs. Hale.’”
“You’ve got a point. I never knew Anita, and I guess Kyle, too, were from this area. There’s not much in Lyleville—just Sadie’s Hollow, the cemetery, and a handful of shops and houses. It sounds like LaRoe’s been a ghost town for years. There’s a chance Mrs. Teller is right, and Anita Benson is from
Garrett or somewhere in this area, too. But these things might just be coincidences.”
Em pressed her fingertips to her eyes. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m jumping at anyone and anything that has even the slimmest connection to this place.”
He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “I think you’re trying to take everything into account and look at every option. That’s not a bad thing.”
The tension in her neck and shoulders released a fraction. She stared at Michael’s profile. His hair had always been a shade darker than hers, and the light streaming in through the windshield highlighted glints of copper like a shiny penny in the sun. She studied the curve of his cheek, the cut of his jaw, the dark auburn scruff. She knew his face as well as she knew her own. Even during her years studying music abroad, the image of him calling out to her was always the last thought to drift through her mind before falling asleep.
She had loved him her whole life, even when she wanted to hate him.
He glanced her way and gave her a wry grin. “Thinking about how handsome I am?” He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed another kiss to her knuckles.
“No, I’m thinking about how lucky I am,” she said, surprised when her voice cracked.
“Hey,” he said, a gentle lilt to his voice.
They had driven past the hospital, and Lake Boley came into view, calm and serene like a sheet of blue-gray glass. He pulled the car over, and Em focused on the pavilion at the water’s edge.
She shook her head and tried to will away the tears in her eyes. “I don’t know why I can’t let it go. I’m home. I’m with you. Music is back in my life, and once I sell the house, my dad will be able to finalize the purchase of the cottage. Shouldn’t that be enough?”
He cupped her face in his hands, and she melted into the warmth of his touch.
“There’s nothing crazy or selfish about wanting to know what happened the night you were injured. Not a day’s gone by where I haven’t wanted to know the exact same thing.” He ran his thumb across her bottom lip. “We’re better together, right?”
The Sound of Home Page 20
