Edgar sent his secretary a warm smile. “Nothing for me. Thank you, Linda. Wynter?”
“I’m fine.”
Wynter dismissed the woman from her mind as she moved to the center of the room.
“We didn’t arrange to meet today, did we?” her father asked, his tone polite but distracted.
Nothing new in that. Edgar Moore hadn’t known what to do with a young daughter after the death of his wife. He’d tried his best to give her a good home with everything her heart could desire. And Wynter never doubted that he loved her. But his focus would always be on his career. She’d accepted that truth a long time ago.
“No.”
“Oh good.” He lifted a hand to remove his glasses and polished them with a handkerchief he took from the pocket of his shirt. Her dad was a slightly built man with gray hair he combed from his narrow face. His green eyes were piercing, hinting at his impressive intelligence. His nose was prominent, and his skin pale from long hours spent inside. As always, he was neatly attired in a white dress shirt with a black tie and black slacks with leather shoes that shined from his morning buffing. “My mind is scattered with this budget report,” he told her in rueful tones. “I can recite Shakespeare’s sonnets, but I can’t remember if the new chairs we purchased for the writing lab should be taken out of grant money or the endowment fund.”
“Aren’t all professors supposed to have their heads in the clouds?”
“‘A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool,’” her father quoted in dry tones. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“I just want to ask a couple questions.”
“Of course.” He waved a hand in a vague gesture. “Sit down.”
Wynter took a seat across the cluttered desk, her gaze turning from her dad to the paneled walls that were lined with oil paintings and the sort of heavy wood furniture usually found in English country manors. Wynter furrowed her brow. Where were the lovely landscape watercolors her mom had painted? And what happened to the soft peach-and-cream curtains that added a much-needed splash of color to the dull space?
Now it was all dark and stiff and . . . different.
“When did you change your office?”
“Oh. Yes.” Edgar shrugged, his expression preoccupied. “Linda insisted that it was looking a little shabby so she spruced it up a few months ago.”
“You let your secretary redecorate?” Wynter demanded, not sure why she felt offended by the thought. Probably because she didn’t want Linda manhandling her mother’s paintings. Or shoving them in some dark closet as if they were trash.
Her dad was suddenly defensive, belatedly realizing that Wynter wasn’t pleased. “You know me. My taste in fashion is worse than my math skills. Your mother used to complain that I must be color-blind.”
It was the opening Wynter was wanting. With an effort, she shoved aside her annoyance toward Linda Baker and concentrated on steering the conversation in the direction she needed it to go.
“I visited Mom’s grave yesterday.”
Edgar nodded, his face stiffening in a familiar manner. Her dad hated discussing his wife. Wynter had always assumed it was because it was still too painful. This morning, however, she wondered if there was another reason he didn’t want to dig through his memories.
“Yes, so you said when you called,” he murmured, slipping on the black-rimmed glasses and returning the handkerchief to his pocket.
“I also visited the cabin,” Wynter continued.
Edgar looked confused. “Your grandfather’s cabin?”
“Technically it’s my cabin now.”
“Yes, yes. Of course.” His confusion remained. “Why would you go there?”
Wynter shrugged. “Someone needs to check on the property. My visit was long overdue.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Edgar conceded. “Have you considered contracting a real estate agent?”
Wynter sucked in a shocked breath. “To sell the cabin?”
“You never use it and it’s eventually going to deteriorate to the point it has to be torn down.”
He was right. And if she was honest, she’d admit that when she bothered to remember she owned the cabin, it had seemed more a liability than an inheritance. It wasn’t like she had any use for it. Not when she worked 24/7. But to hear her father say the words out loud hurt like a physical blow.
“It’s the only thing I have left that belonged to Mom.”
“I understand, but I think it’s best for you to concentrate on the future rather than dwell on the past.”
“Wanting to keep a part of my mom isn’t dwelling on the past.”
Edgar’s lips thinned. “I don’t want to argue. You should do what makes you happy.” He glanced toward the grandfather clock set in the corner of the office. A less than subtle indication he was done with the conversation. “Did you have a reason for stopping by this morning?”
Wynter sucked in a slow, deep breath, giving herself an opportunity to consider what she was about to do. She wasn’t as close to her dad as she wanted to be, but she loved him. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt him.
Unfortunately, asking painful questions was the only way she knew how to discover if her mother had been deliberately shot or if it’d been a random crime.
“I found something while I was at the cabin.” She at last forced the words past her stiff lips.
“What?”
Wynter reached into her purse, pulling out the folded envelopes. She held them up so her dad could see them. “This.”
“Letters?”
“Love letters.”
“I don’t understand.” He regarded the envelopes with barely concealed revulsion. “You want me to read your old love letters?”
“They’re not mine.”
“Oh.”
Wynter leaned forward, dropping the letters on the desk. “Did you know that Mom was having an affair with Drake Shelton?”
“What?” Edgar jerked in shock.
“I said that Mom was having an affair with a man named Drake Shelton. He was a neighbor to Grandmother Hurst.”
His face drained of color. “I heard what you said.”
“Did you know?”
Edgar clenched his jaw, deliberately refusing to glance at the envelopes. “I’m not going to discuss this with you.”
So he did know. She could read the truth etched on his face. “Yes, you are.”
“Wynter.”
There was an edge in his voice that usually made her back down. Wynter hated arguments. It wasn’t that she was a doormat, but she preferred to avoid disputes whenever possible. This time, she stiffened her spine and plowed forward. “For years you’ve refused to talk about Mom. I think I deserve answers.”
A nerve twitched at the corner of his mouth. “She’s buried. Can’t she be allowed to rest in peace?”
The photo revealing her mom’s last moments seared through Wynter’s mind. Had she sensed that the mugger was about to pull the trigger? Had she recognized who was standing in front of her? Had she pleaded for mercy?
The questions battered at her with agonizing insistence.
“Is she resting in peace?” Wynter muttered. “I don’t think so.”
Edgar heaved a loud, exasperated sigh. “I know this is hard, Wynter. Losing your mother at such a young age—”
“Exactly. My memories have faded until I can barely picture her face. I need to know who she was.”
“Fine. We’ll have dinner next week.” Edgar reached for his pen. His hints that he wanted her to leave were becoming more obvious. “We can talk then.”
Wynter shook her head. She knew this man. He suggested dinner at least a few times a month. Dinners that were forgotten or canceled or rescheduled for a later date.
She squared her shoulders. “Did you know about the affair?”
He clutched the pen so tight, it snapped in half. “Wynter. Stop this.”
“Did you?”
With a muttered cu
rse, Edgar dropped the pen and reached for his handkerchief. He carefully wiped the drops of ink from the tips of his fingers.
“Yes.” The word sounded as if it was wrenched from his tight lips. “I knew. We’d been going through a difficult time. I was working long hours, and being the wife of a professor wasn’t as glamorous or as exciting as Laurel thought it would be.”
Wynter sat back in her chair, feeling oddly deflated. Had she nursed a secret hope that this was all a mistake? That her mother hadn’t been using the cabin as some sort of sordid love shack?
She swallowed the lump that threatened to form in her throat. “Are you saying that she was bored?”
“Frustrated,” Edgar corrected.
“With what?”
“With me. With her art. With this town.”
Wynter gripped the arms of her chair as a distant memory teased at the edge of her mind. The sound of her mom shouting before she was slamming out of the house.
“Frustrated with me?” she asked in a soft voice.
“Yes, with you.” Edgar tossed the handkerchief in the trash can beside his desk. It was a rare display of anger. “I think she was hoping an affair would make her feel like she did when she was still a teenager. It’s not uncommon. Marriages are never smooth sailing. There’re always troubled seas.”
“An affair is more than troubled seas.”
“Perhaps.” He glanced away, his jaw clenching as if he was battling back an emotion he didn’t want to share. “But we were working on our relationship. She swore she was ending the affair the weekend she . . .”
“Was murdered?” she finished for him.
“Died,” he snapped. He always refused to use the word murdered. Or even shot.
Wynter assumed it was to protect her from the violence that ended her mom’s life. Or because he couldn’t bear to use the words.
“And you believed her?” she demanded.
“Yes.” Edgar shoved himself upright, his face clenched as tight as a fist. “And that’s the end of it, Wynter. My meeting is in ten minutes.”
Wynter slowly rose to her feet, absently grabbing the letters off the desk and shoving them back into her purse. There was a tension humming around her dad’s slender body that she’d never seen before. He was truly upset. But why?
Because she’d brought up the painful memory of his wife’s infidelity? Or because he was embarrassed that Wynter had discovered the truth? Or maybe he was upset with the knowledge his wife had been taken from him just when they were getting their marriage back together.
Whatever the answer, she wasn’t going to get any additional information from her dad. Not today.
Walking out of the office, she was halfway across the reception room when she felt fingers close around her arm.
“Wynter.” Linda Baker’s cold voice sliced into Wynter’s scrambled thoughts. “Can I have a word?”
Forced to a halt, she glanced over her shoulder. “What?”
“I overheard your conversation with your father.”
Wynter glanced toward the connecting door. She’d been so distracted she hadn’t realized the secretary had deliberately left it open.
“You were eavesdropping.” She glared at the older woman. “That was a private conversation between me and my dad.”
Linda didn’t bother to apologize. They both knew she wasn’t sorry. Instead she offered what she no doubt hoped was a sympathetic smile.
Crocodile. The word whispered through the back of Wynter’s mind.
“I know you’re upset. It must be a shock.”
Wynter jerked her arm free. “As I said, it’s private.”
She was heading toward the outer door when Linda’s soft words brought her to a halt.
“Did you come here to discover the truth or not?”
Wynter slowly turned. “Excuse me?”
Linda slithered forward, her features pinched into a sour expression. “Your father will never reveal what he endured during his marriage.”
Wynter narrowed her eyes. She’d always sensed that the woman was possessive of her dad. And reluctant to share him with anyone, including his own daughter.
Now she could clearly see that the woman was bitterly jealous of Edgar’s dead wife.
“But you’ll tell me?”
Linda leaned forward, drenching Wynter in the cloying scent of her expensive perfume.
“The man in Pike wasn’t Laurel’s first lover.”
Wynter gasped at the ugly accusation. “How would you know?”
Linda shrugged. “It was common knowledge in town.”
The words slammed into Wynter. “I don’t believe you.”
“I’m sorry, Wynter. I’m not trying to be unkind, but I won’t have you thinking ill of your father.” There was no mistaking the admonition in the woman’s cold voice. “He tried to keep his family together despite the fact your mother was constantly unfaithful.”
Wynter told herself to leave. She hadn’t come here to listen to a woman she didn’t even like talk trash about her dead mother. But her feet refused to budge. If Linda was telling the truth, then Wynter needed to hear what she had to say. “Who?”
The secretary blinked at Wynter’s abrupt question. “What?”
“You said my mother’s affairs were common knowledge. Who else did she sleep with?”
“Oh.” Linda shrugged. “Dr. Peyton, the art professor.”
Wynter jerked before she grimly controlled her expression. She didn’t want to give Linda the satisfaction of seeing her shock.
It wasn’t that it was hard to imagine Dr. Peyton indulging in an affair. He was exactly what you would think a professor of art should be. A handsome hipster with a careless charm and air of a free spirit. Every woman on campus found him attractive.
“Who else?” she demanded.
“Max Jenkins.”
Wynter shook her head. “I’ve never heard that name.”
Linda puckered her lips into a moue of disapproval. “He was a delivery driver. He committed suicide shortly after your mother revealed she was pregnant with you.” She paused, presumably for dramatic affect. “There were whispers that he died of a broken heart.”
The icy words pierced Wynter like a dagger. Whirling away from the secretary, she hurried out of the office. Ten minutes later, she was in her truck driving back home.
She tried to concentrate on her father’s admission that he knew about his wife’s infidelity. And that she’d intended to end things with Drake Shelton. Was it possible that Drake had been infuriated when her mother had told him the affair was over? He’d certainly looked like a man who was deeply mourning the woman he loved when they’d seen him yesterday.
Wynter clenched the steering wheel, struggling to keep her concentration on the road.
If her mother could drive one man to suicide, could she drive another to murder?
Chapter 8
Wynter intended to drive straight home. She was tired and in desperate need of coffee, but somehow she found herself heading toward the far side of Larkin where a small cemetery was hidden behind a border of old oak trees. Pulling to a halt near the front gate, she stepped out of the truck to wander among the graves.
She didn’t really expect to find anything. Even if Max Jenkins had killed himself, there was no guarantee he would be buried here. Or that she’d been able to locate his grave. Larkin was a small town, but it’d been around since the early 1800s. A lot of people had died over the years.
She was rounding the massive, gothic-inspired mausoleum that had been built by one of the town founders when her eye was caught by a simple headstone next to the pathway. Maxwell Jenkins.
Was this it?
Wynter crouched down to brush away the thick layer of dust.
Maxwell Jenkins
Beloved son and brother
RIP
December 22, 1991
Wynter’s mouth went dry, and with a muffled curse, she scurried back to her car. Why had she come? Just to prove that a man nam
ed Max Jenkins existed? And that he’d died around the time her mother would have discovered she was pregnant? Or because she desperately hoped Linda had been lying?
Back in her truck, she drove straight to the center of town. No more detours, she sternly told herself. They only caused more headaches.
Pulling into the lot, she caught sight of a silver van. She didn’t need to see the sign on the side of the vehicle that advertised Wheeler Repair Services to recognize the owner.
She’d known Oliver Wheeler, or Ollie as she called him, her whole life. When she was a young girl, he’d worked as a farmhand for her grandfather. Originally, Ollie’s father had been hired, but he’d taken off when Ollie was a teenager, leaving the young man stuck doing his job to keep a roof over his mother’s head.
Over the years Ollie made extra money doing odd jobs around town. Now he ran his own business and was in constant demand by the locals. It was only his loyalty to Wynter’s grandfather that ensured he continued to keep her restaurant a top priority.
Pulling next to his van, Wynter jumped out of her truck. By the time she rounded the hood, Ollie was joining her.
He was short for a man, and with skin that was pale despite the time he spent in the sun. His dark blond hair was cut short, his eyes hovered somewhere between blue and gray. He was in his early forties, but looked younger. Maybe it was his shy smile, or just an air of innocence that never changed.
This morning he was wearing his usual coveralls with his name stitched on the pocket.
“Ollie.” She sent him a smile, more than happy to have a distraction from her troubled thoughts. “I didn’t know you were coming by this morning.”
“I found a replacement handle for your walk-in freezer. I thought you would want me to take care of it while you had the restaurant closed.”
“That would be perfect, thanks,” she said. The freezer still worked, but the inside handle was broken. She was terrified someone might get locked in. “And if you have time, I’d like to discuss removing the cement at the back of the lot for the extension to the restaurant. I want to have the garden laid out before we start work on the patio.”
Ollie nodded. “Do you want to wait until your visitor leaves?”
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