Shadows of the Past (Logan Point Book #1): A Novel

by Bradley, Patricia

  With the help of Scott’s lawyer, the investigator found his brother living in Alabama and brought him back in time for the funeral. What neither Nick nor the investigator had been able to do was keep him sober. Nick winced as he remembered how he’d gone off on Scott. Harsh words that couldn’t be taken back.

  The PI answered on the first ring. “What can I do for you, Nick?”

  “Just checking to see if you had anything new on Scott.”

  “Actually, I do, but since it’s late, I planned to wait until morning to call you.”

  Nick checked his watch. He didn’t realize it was already ten-thirty. “What do you have?”

  “A prepaid credit card with a $480 purchase three weeks ago at a jewelry store in that same town where he attended college. Newton, Washington.”

  “Three weeks ago? And you just now found it?”

  “Like I told you when you hired me, I’m not law enforcement. I have to go through channels, and that takes time, especially with something like a prepaid card.”

  “But you found him so quickly before.”

  “Yeah, his lawyer helped last time because you were legally his guardian. That’s not the case this time. He can’t divulge information Scott wants kept private.”

  “I didn’t mean to question your ability. It’s just that I’m frustrated.” With himself as much as Scott. After his brother had shown up at the funeral drunk, Nick had washed his hands of him until a month ago when Scott called out of the blue, crying, wanting help, promising to do better.

  He told Scott to come home, but he never showed up. Webster had traced the call to a cell tower in Newton.

  “Do you want to handle it like last time, or would you like me to check it out?”

  Nick glanced at the photo of Angie again and gripped the phone tighter. Return to Newton? His gaze shifted to his calendar. He could book a flight for Sunday, take a day to check out Webster’s information, and return on Tuesday. “I’ll go myself.”

  “Good deal.”

  “I need you to do one more thing. Eight years ago, I published a short story. I’ve googled it, but nothing came up. Would you check to see if you can find it floating around somewhere?”

  Nick flew into SeaTac airport Sunday afternoon, rented a car, and drove the hour to Newton. He hoped there wouldn’t be another disaster waiting for him. Scott was the only family he had left, and Nick needed to know his brother was all right and that he hadn’t been the one to use Nick’s poem for a death threat. Then he could clear Scott’s name with Taylor.

  A call to the sheriff’s department netted him zero information on Scott. He did find out that while the sheriff remained in the hospital, he was recovering.

  Three times he’d taken out his phone to call Taylor, and three times he’d returned it to his pocket, the call unmade. He’d only promised to call if he found Scott, and he hadn’t. So what did he have to say? Taylor, I’m really attracted to you, but there’s this thing about my wife. She died and I don’t know how to move on . . .

  Until he did, he better steer clear of the beautiful professor.

  She had nothing to do with the fact that he flew twenty-five hundred miles to take care of something that could’ve been done over the phone. If he kept telling himself that, he might believe it. In a hundred years.

  After a restless night, Nick drove downtown to Drexler Jewelry, the store listed on the credit card report, arriving a little before ten at the quaint little place in the older, artsy section of Newton. The door jingled shut behind Nick, drawing the attention of a stooped, balding clerk.

  “May I help you?”

  “I hope so.” Nick pulled a note from his pocket with the information Webster had emailed him. “A purchase from your store showed it was paid for with a credit card belonging to my brother. I want to get a little more information about it.”

  “No can do.” The clerk stared him down with watery blue eyes.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I can’t give you information about someone’s credit card.”

  “It’s not his credit card I want to know about. It’s the purchase.”

  The jeweler eyed him with tight-lipped suspicion.

  “Let me start over. I’m Nick Sinclair, and I haven’t seen my brother in almost three years. This purchase is the first lead I’ve had, and I hoped there might be an address on the receipt. I have the date of purchase and the card number.”

  The man hesitated, then his face softened, and he stuck his hand out to Nick. “Herman Drexler. My sister ran off when she was fifteen to get married. I looked for her for years . . . that was over sixty years ago. What’s your brother’s name, and when did he make the purchase?”

  Nick grasped his hand. “Thank you. May 8, and it should be under the name Scott Sinclair.”

  Herman pulled a gray metal box from under the counter and flipped through the files. “Ah, here it is. I remember this. A phone order for a diamond tennis bracelet. It was mailed to a box number at a receiving service here in Newton that same day.”

  A diamond tennis bracelet? Nick’s mind raced. He’d expected a man’s watch maybe, but a woman’s bracelet? He jotted down the number and the name of the service to give to Carl Webster.

  Herman reached under the counter again and brought out a black satin box. “This is a bracelet like he bought.”

  He opened the box, revealing a simple yet elegant circle of round diamonds. At least his brother had good taste. “Thank you for your time.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t be more help. I hope you find your brother.”

  Nick sat in his car, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. He took out his cell and called the private investigator, only to be told he was out for the morning.

  “Maybe I can help you.”

  “Just have him call me.” Nick hung up. Moments passed before he pulled away from the curb and drove toward the university. He’d been kidding himself to think he wouldn’t go see Taylor.

  4

  Taylor’s footsteps echoed down the empty hallway to her office, a definite sign the semester had ended. Someone had stuck a newspaper in her box, one of her students probably. She retrieved it, then juggling the paper and her briefcase she unlocked her door and stepped inside.

  The sweet aroma of Cavendish tobacco greeted her, courtesy of the former occupant, a crusty old professor with a penchant for pipes. Taylor left the curtains closed and flipped on a small lamp, enjoying the soft glow on the walnut paneling.

  Perhaps today she could concentrate on wrapping up the semester and getting term papers read and grades posted instead of trying to figure out who assaulted her and Dale. Two weeks since the assault, and she was no closer to solving the case. At least Dale had improved and might even get to go home this week. Scott Sinclair had virtually disappeared from Newton, no more notes had arrived, and Zeke Thornton was still looking for burglars.

  The opening notes of the Batman musical score jarred her. Chase. She’d assigned the theme song from his favorite movie as his ringtone, but the way the urgent notes pricked her senses, she might need to change it.

  Furthermore, it was too early in the morning for this to be good news.

  Taylor walked to the window and parted the curtain as she answered. “Morning.”

  “I didn’t expect you to answer. Figured it’d go to your voice mail.”

  “Nope, you got me. How’s my niece?”

  “Abby’s good. She’s leaving for horse camp this afternoon.”

  “Is school out in Mississippi?”

  “School ends the twentieth of May here. Something you’d know if you ever came home.”

  She flinched. But, blame was a two-way street. Chase only called when he wanted something. “So, what’s up?”

  Chase’s answer was slow in coming. Taylor’s stomach knotted as she stared out the window at Mt. Rainier. The mountain peak was visible, but not for long. Dark billows of gray lay to the west, waiting to descend and wrap around the summit.

  “C
an you come home before July? Like now?”

  Oh no. She could tell things were not good with the family again from the urgency in his voice, reminding her of one of the reasons she shied away from Logan Point. “Chase, I’m really busy with a case.”

  “It’s important, Taylor. Jonathan wants to sell our land.”

  Sell Martin land? Land that had been in the family since the early 1800s? “What are you talking about?”

  “A developer offered a million dollars for the sixty-five acres behind the house.”

  Taylor almost dropped her phone. “Did you say—”

  “Yeah. A million.”

  For once, words escaped her. Her mother always said that land was valuable, but—

  “I can get Mom to side with me, and if you agree, Jonathan can’t sell. But he keeps pushing, says the offer won’t be on the table long. You know Dad wouldn’t want to sell.”

  Taylor focused on Mt. Rainier again. Clouds now obscured the very tip of the peak. Suddenly, she was nine years old . . .

  “Your word is judgment.”

  “Judgment.” Taylor’s braids bobbed as she repeated the word. “J-u-d-g-e-m-e-n-t.”

  “I’m sorry, that is incorrect.”

  Sweat trickled down Taylor’s back as Trudy Carter prissed to the microphone and shot a triumphant glance at Taylor. She repeated the word and began spelling. “J-u-d-g-m-e-n-t.”

  Applause sounded, and her classmate all but skipped to her seat. Taylor barely noticed. Her gaze focused on her dad’s retreating back.

  She never saw him again.

  “Can you come this week?”

  Chase’s insistent question brought her back to the present. She couldn’t just drop her search for Scott.

  But why not? She’d hit a dead end.

  Because she didn’t want to go home yet. “This week? Impossible. It’s the end of the semester. I’ve been out a few days and have a ton of work waiting. Besides, you said that Jonathan can’t sell unless we all agree.”

  “Taylor, I don’t ask a lot from you.” Chase’s voice cracked. “You’re the only person who can do anything with him. Won’t you do this one thing?”

  The dark clouds completely obscured the mountain. Taylor’s shoulders drooped, and air escaped from her lungs in a long sigh. “How about the end of next week?”

  “The developer is pushing for an answer this week, and I’m afraid of what our uncle will do. Mom said to call you.”

  Why hadn’t her mother called?

  She knew why. Her mom hated confrontation, and she wouldn’t want Jonathan to know she disagreed with him. Taylor didn’t blame her. Getting into the middle of another conflict with her uncle was the last thing Taylor wanted. “Is Oak Grove included in the deal?”

  “Yep. Can you believe he wants to sell the old home place?”

  Who would buy land that contained a house on the National Register of Historical Places? Especially one that needed a lot of repairs, or had the last time she saw it. “What triggered this sudden urge for Jonathan to sell?”

  “He claims he has financial problems that he’s blaming on the new CPA office here in Logan Point. Says he has to have cash to keep it open, but I don’t buy that. The office is making money. I manage it—I know. Look, Sis, you were coming home in July anyway. You can just come a month early.”

  Stubborn was Chase’s middle name. Silence stretched between them. She could be just as stubborn. “Let me check my calendar and get back to you.”

  Taylor hung up and slid the phone in her pocket. Another problem to deal with. She walked to her desk, where term papers awaited her. She’d call him tomorrow and tell him she couldn’t make it before the middle of the month. Maybe the problem with her uncle would be resolved by then. Only if Jonathan got his way.

  Talk about a dysfunctional family. A weight settled in her chest as thoughts of her dad returned. The spelling bee wasn’t the last time she saw her father—he left in the summer, and the competition had been in the dead of winter. Why would she recall it that way?

  Taylor straightened her shoulders. Forget it. Move on. She splayed the weekly newspaper across her desk, immediately noticing that an article had been circled. “Small Child Rescued, Mother Recovering from Injuries.”

  The write-up on the Coleman case. Someone had penned “Criminal Minds: Newton” across the bottom of the two-week-old paper. Had to be one of her students. Each semester, at least half the students thought her classes would be one Criminal Minds episode after another. Most quickly learned otherwise. Her classes focused on the basics of victimology—figuring out how and why the victim was chosen and how to create a profile of the victim as well as the offender. That’s what had led her to little Sarah’s abductor.

  A light rap at the door jerked her attention from the article.

  “Come in.”

  Christine crossed the threshold, a satchel in her hands. “Good morning.”

  Her friend’s voice held way too much enthusiasm, but then it always did. This morning Christine looked every bit the art professor in her tiger-striped dress that flowed loosely from the shoulders.

  Christine placed her satchel on Taylor’s desk. “I miss you at the track. How are you feeling?”

  Taylor rubbed her left shoulder. “Head’s better, but my shoulder still gives me trouble.”

  “At least you have a little color in your cheeks. Any special reason?”

  “My brother wants me to come home, like yesterday.”

  “Oh.” Christine gave her a knowing look. “But that might not be all bad. Doesn’t Nicholas Sinclair live in Memphis? And isn’t Logan Point close by?”

  “I don’t get the point.” Taylor picked at a hangnail on her thumb.

  “Taylor, the guy is smitten. At the hospital, I saw the way his gaze followed you. Have you heard from him?”

  Taylor felt heat in her cheeks.

  Her friend clapped her hands. “You have! He called you!”

  “No. I called him to see if he’d heard from his brother.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “There was nothing to tell. He hasn’t seen him, or so he said.”

  “Nicholas Sinclair wouldn’t lie.”

  “Look, Miss Glass-half-full, you don’t actually know the man. He could be a serial killer for all you know.”

  Her friend took a book from her satchel. “The man who wrote this could never lie. You need to read it. I’m going to leave it with you in case he ever comes—”

  “He’s not coming back.” That door had slammed shut—Nick’s voice had conveyed the message quite plainly. But what did she expect? She’d wanted to arrest his brother the last time she saw him. What she didn’t expect was the way regret speared her heart.

  “Just in case.” Christine slipped the book on Taylor’s desk, then turned to go. “Oh, wait!” She pulled a square white envelope from the satchel and handed it to Taylor. “Since you weren’t here last Friday, the secretary asked me to give you this. It’s your invitation to Dean Hart’s annual fete this Wednesday night.”

  Taylor stared at the invitation like it was a snake. Could the day get any worse? The summons, and it was a summons, meant she’d be stuck for at least thirty minutes in the same room with her ex-fiancé and his bride of three months. Rumor had it he’d been seeing the woman for quite a while before he broke their engagement. Too bad the friends who had been so quick to share that information after he dumped her hadn’t been more forthcoming when it was going on.

  She massaged her temples as a migraine threatened. Not attending wasn’t a choice—unless she was dead or in the hospital . . . or in Mississippi like Chase wanted.

  “I heard she’s pregnant.” Christine’s soft voice didn’t blunt the bomb she dropped.

  Definitely a migraine coming on. Taylor pressed her lips together, blinking away the hot sting of tears forming in her eyes. It wasn’t fair. She swallowed and forced words past her lips. “Thanks for telling me.”

  “I didn’t want you to
hear it from someone else.” Christine’s voice reflected concern. “Look, I have a student to see about a final grade, but if you need me . . .”

  “I’ll be okay. Really.”

  After Christine left, Taylor ripped the invitation in half and tossed it on her desk. She had two options, neither of which she liked. Stay here and pretend to be happy for Michael—no way would she fuel the university gossip mill again—or go home and deal with the life she’d fled. Going home looked better by the minute. Besides, how hard could it be?

  Like scaling Mt. Rainier in a blizzard kind of hard.

  She massaged her temples again. It was only Monday. She had four days before the party, so she didn’t have to think about it this minute. Maybe she’d think about it . . . tomorrow.

  Oh, great! Now she was quoting Scarlett O’Hara in her head. Wouldn’t her ex-fiancé just love that? With a shake of her head, she reached for the stack of term papers.

  Six term papers and two hours later, she stood and stretched. So far, she was pleased with the way her students had grasped the concept of victim profiling. The three-page essays reflected careful consideration and even examples of case studies. She actually wanted to pump her fist in the air.

  Her gaze caught Nick’s book on the corner of her desk, and Taylor picked it up. Dead Men Don’t Lie. She turned the book over. Nick, with a brown sports coat thrown over his shoulder, grinned back at her, dimples creasing his cheeks. She just might contact him again when she went home. Another knock at her door shot a jolt of adrenaline through her body, and her fingers gripped the book tighter. Nick’s lanky frame filled the doorway. “Nick? I didn’t think—”

  “Neither did I, but I was here in town and decided to stop by. May I come in? Maybe talk about Scott and convince you he isn’t your stalker?”

  “Maybe it’ll work the other way around.” She waved him in, trying to ignore the way her heart raced even as his cottony scent tickled her nose. Nick smelled like sunshine and a freshly ironed shirt. She glanced at his feet as he crossed the floor. Cowboy boots.

  He followed her gaze. “Ever tried them? Cowboy boots?”