Jill Elizabeth Nelson (12 page)

“I'm done in Grandma's bedroom and mine,” she said, “but not much else. How about you take the dining room, and I'll tackle the kitchen.”

“Sounds like a plan.” What else could he do but let her be the boss?

Over the next few hours, they worked through the house, room by room. Nicole always made sure they weren't in the same room. Accidentally or on purpose? Rich battled disappointment that she seemed determined to hold herself aloof. But wasn't that a good thing? Hadn't he determined a similar course of action where the attractive Nicole Mattson was concerned? Why couldn't he convince his heart to chalk her up as a missed opportunity?

They finished the last rooms on the second floor and then met in the hallway. Nicole eyed the open doorway to the attic as if a monster might emerge from the stairwell at any time.

“We might as well get this over with.” She marched toward the attic.

Rich hurried after her. So that's what had been bugging her. Of course! She'd have to face the spot her grandmother had lain bleeding. The stain would still be on the floorboards.

“Just a minute,” he called.

Oblivious, Nicole charged ahead and started up the stairs just as Rich reached the bottom. On the third step, she let out a sound like a half sigh, half sob and went limp. Her body collapsed backward. Exclaiming, Rich lifted his arms and caught her. The impact of her slight frame drove him a step backward.

Cradling her limp form, he lowered her to the floor. Nicole was out cold. Did she faint? Was she ill? Her skin was bleached white, not hot or flushed with fever. A rank smell wafted from her hair. Rich sniffed the sleeve of her shirt. Clean. But her skin smelled faintly of the same decay as her hair, like a Dumpster diver who'd had time to change clothes but not enough time to take a shower.

Was this telltale odor the real reason Nicole had put space between them? What had she been doing? Going through neighborhood garbage bins looking for that missing bag? Or maybe she found it and what she'd discovered inside had scared her silly. Rich's pulse stalled. Would she really keep something like that from him? With a sick feeling, he knew the answer. Anyone in her situation might decide to protect the living over seeking justice for the dead.

What should he do with his suspicion? Confront her? No, that move would be counterproductive—not only to his case, but to their relationship. Maybe if he gave her some space to process whatever had so shocked her, she would come to him of her own free will. He'd wait. Not indefinitely, but for a little while.

Right now, he needed to see if he could wake Nicole from her faint. He patted her pale cheek.

“Wake up, honey.” The endearment slipped from his lips, and he didn't want to call it back.

A slight groan met his efforts. Her eyelids fluttered and then popped open. “Wh-what happened?”

“I think you passed out.”

“Me? Pass out? I've never done such a thing in my life.” Nicole sat up under her own power, and a noise rumbled from her stomach. She put a hand to her middle.

“When was the last time you had something to eat?”

Nicole's forehead puckered. “Um, I ate a tuna fish sandwich yesterday evening. I was going to go to the grocery store this morning, but—” Her gaze fell away from his. “Well, you know how crazy things have been.”

With an effort, Rich kept himself from erupting with a barrage of questions. She must have run into a big distraction—like the missing garbage bag. Then he called and insisted on coming over, and the rest was history.

Rich helped Nicole to her feet. “We're going downstairs and order a pizza. Then you're going to relax with your feet up and a cool beverage while I clean up that bad spot in the attic.”

“Oh, would you?”

He'd walk across the Sahara in a snowsuit to receive the adoration of those big brown eyes. If his chest expanded any more, he'd need a bigger shirt. He'd just better remember that if she was hiding something from him, they would be working on opposite sides of the law.

A
fter they consumed the pizza and Rich left, Nicole meandered from room to room in the big old house. Now that the mess was tidied up, she was left with nothing on her plate but to stew over what she'd discovered in that garbage bag. And the fact that she hadn't turned her find over to Rich.

That guy was amazing! So kind and thoughtful, funny and gentle. But a good cop, tough when he needed to be.

What was the matter with her? She couldn't keep the information—sketchy as it was—away from the law. But she needed time to think about the cryptic remains of a torn letter she'd pieced together from the debris. Most of the flowery script had been soaked completely away in the meat grease contained in the garbage bag. What remained decipherable contained no “To” or “From” information. Maybe “sweet baby S” on one scrap wasn't even talking about Samuel Elling. Maybe the letter had nothing to do with the kidnapping. Maybe the bones she'd found belonged to some other child.

Nicole plopped down at the kitchen table and rubbed her forehead with the tips of her fingers. Why bother playing these games of denial with herself? Of course the letter she found was connected to the remains under the rose garden. Why else would her grandmother be so bent on
destroying it, and who else would “baby S” be than Samuel Elling? But accepting those deductions raised a crop of new questions.

Who sent the letter? A woman, judging by the handwriting, but there were no addresses on the ripped-up remains of the envelope—which meant it hadn't passed through the mail—just the words
Urgent! Please read right away!
in the same ornate script as the letter. At least, Nicole could rule out her grandmother as the author. Grandma Jan's handwriting was a sturdy block print. But was she the recipient of the letter? If not, then how did she get it and from whom? Grandpa Frank? If so, did he give it to his wife or did she find the haunting missive among his effects after his death? Nicole couldn't imagine her steady, rather stodgy, grandfather receiving a clandestine note from another woman.

A disbelieving laugh started in Nicole's throat then lodged there and became a lump. Impossible to imagine Grandpa burying an infant under his roses, but someone had. And Rich had noted that it was likely someone who cared about the child. Grandpa Frank loved children. She slammed fisted hands onto the table then pressed them against her eyes.

This whole situation was too much to handle by herself. If only she could unload on Rich. He'd understand. He'd say the right thing. He always did. But then he'd have to, to be a cop.

She lifted her head. Hadn't she noticed that smug investigator look on his face when he returned from the attic? Nicole went rigid. Did he snoop in her room and find the letter? She charged up the stairs two at a time and strong-armed her mattress several inches up from the box spring. Breath gusted between her teeth. The greasy, taped together scraps remained in the plastic bag right where she'd left it.

Nicole let the mattress drop back into place. But that
didn't mean he hadn't found the letter and read it. She sank onto the edge of the bed. No, if Rich had found this evidence, his duty as an officer would have compelled him to confiscate it.

Then why had he looked like a bloodhound on a scent when he came downstairs? She knew that look from her dad and her husband. Rich had found a new lead. In the attic? But what?

Nicole trotted up the steps and gazed around. Not only had Rich scrubbed away the stain on the floorboards, but he'd righted stacks of boxes and set the clutter into neat rows. The contents of the attic still needed a good sorting and weeding, but at least there were aisles to walk through the area. Her grandfather's school memorabilia had also been put away in his old trunk. Grandma had taken Nicole through all those items shortly after Grandpa died—a painful, precious celebration of a life well lived. Could there possibly have been something in there that pointed suspicion at Frank Keller?

Kneeling by the trunk, she opened the lid. A letter jacket lay folded neatly on top of the contents. Nicole removed it and began digging through the keepsakes. Grandpa's parents had documented his life extensively. Some school papers from kindergarten were in here, yellowed and brittle. A set of three volumes caught her eye—Grandpa's yearbooks. She dug them out. In the first one she looked at, Frank Keller's picture was under the sophomore class. In the next one, she found him under the freshman class. The third volume was from his junior year.

Nicole rocked back on her heels. Where was Grandpa's senior yearbook? There's no way he collected one from every year of his high school life and neglected the most significant year of all. Did Rich take the book? Nicole shook her head. No, he'd come down the stairs with nothing in
his hands but the cleaning bucket and supplies. He couldn't have hidden a find any bigger than something he could tuck in his pocket.

Or maybe Rich had noticed the same thing she did—the senior yearbook was missing. That meant someone had taken it. Someone like the person who attacked her grandmother only a few feet from this trunk.

Prickles swarmed across Nicole's skin. That book must contain information the attacker didn't want known. Rich would have come to the same conclusion, and he'd be on the trail of a copy first thing tomorrow. Nicole needed to beat him to it. Whatever was hidden in that book, she wanted to know it first, if only to steel herself for whatever was to come regarding her grandparents' involvement in that long-ago kidnapping. Maybe then she could make herself turn that letter over to Rich.

 

The next morning, Nicole met the excavation crew downtown at the remains of the shop. Holding reopening plans in the forefront of her mind, the heavy sense of loss began to give place to anticipation. Now, if only she could convince her grandmother to feel the same way.
Please, God, let me have the opportunity to present the new business plan to an awake and aware woman.
Even if they clashed over the idea, that alternative was far better than dealing with the possibility of brain damage or even death.

Nicole instructed the excavators to keep a log of major items, such as sewing machines, they discovered in the debris. The crew chief acknowledged her request and said that Police Chief Rich Hendricks had already instructed them to run a tally in order to determine whether theft was connected to the arson.

Rich was ahead of her again. Was he also ahead of her in finding a copy of that yearbook?

Nicole turned away from the burned-out shop, hands in her jeans pockets. A smattering of gawkers had gathered on the sidewalk across the street as the crew began their task. The cleanup activity was as good as a circus in this small community. Gazes avoided hers, and no one approached to ask about Jan Keller. Was someone in that group angry enough to have set the fire? They all looked sufficiently uncomfortable to have been responsible. Or maybe that was because Jan Keller's granddaughter was studying them, and they had no clue what to say.

Sorrow dug an aching pit in Nicole's heart. Look what damage suspicion had already done to her family. The only way to fix this was to find out what really happened half a century ago. Despite the doubts that clamored against her faith, she had to believe the truth would exonerate her grandparents.

Darlene's Beauty Shop caught her eye. Hadn't the yearbooks shown Darlene to be a classmate of Grandpa Frank's? Maybe the beautician would have a copy of their senior yearbook.

Energized, Nicole made a beeline for the store, ignoring the regular crosswalk. If the police actually ticketed people for jaywalking around here, everybody in town would owe a mint. She found Darlene holding court on a stool behind the sales counter, while the two beauticians who worked for her tended to clients. According to Nicole's grandmother, Darlene welcomed her midseventies with the energy of a fifty-year-old and no inclination to retire, but her legs would no longer tolerate standing for long hours. The shop owner stayed busy collecting fees, selling hair-care products and gabbing with the clients awaiting their turns in the chairs.

The gabbing went silent as Nicole crossed the waiting area to the counter. Darlene greeted her with a big grin that faded to brow-puckered concern.

“How is that tough old bird grandmother of yours doing?” the woman asked in her Mae West voice.

Nicole flickered a smile. “She is a tough one. I'll give her that. The doctor said she's lucky she has such a hard head.”

Darlene laughed and a few snickers chimed in from the patrons.

“Grandma's hanging in there.” Nicole hauled in a deep breath of beauty shop air scented with perm solution and hair spray. “I've got a favor to ask of you. Could we talk in private?”

“Anything!” Darlene climbed down from her stool and picked up her cane. “Kay, you're in charge for a little while,” she said to one of the beauticians. “We're retiring to my mansion.” She followed the words with a throaty chuckle.

Nicole trailed her hostess through a door at the rear of the shop and found herself in a tiny, well-lived-in apartment. The place probably hadn't been redecorated in decades, but the clutter was more cozy than messy.

Darlene turned, planted both hands on the top of her cane, and fixed Nicole with eagle eyes. “What can I do to help?”

“I'm looking for a copy of my grandfather's senior yearbook. You were classmates.”

The beautician's painted-on brows arched upward. “Never expected that one. I won't ask why, though I assume it has something to do with what happened to that poor little infant.” She caned her way over to a metal bookshelf. “For the record, I don't for a second believe Frank or Jan had a thing to do with kidnapping or hurting a child.”

“Thanks,” Nicole said. “Neither do I.”

“Good girl. Hang in there. This town'll come to its senses eventually. They're good eggs, mostly, just confused. Ah, here it is.” Darlene pulled a slim volume from one of the
shelves. “I'm a sentimental old hoss. I actually leaf through these from time to time. Good for a laugh.” She shrugged and handed the book to Nicole. “If it's anything you can check out right here, I'd prefer not to let the book off the premises.”

“I'm not even sure what I'm looking for, but I can browse here as well as anywhere.”

“Have a seat.” Darlene motioned toward a bulky couch sporting a plaid cover over the original upholstery. “Take your time. You know where I'll be.” The beautician fluttered her fingers and headed out front.

As soon as the door closed behind her hostess, Nicole settled onto the couch, clutching her prize in both hands. Her heart thudded erratically against her ribs. What secret would she find within these pages that was worth nearly killing an old woman to protect?

Within a half hour, Nicole had her answer. She'd gotten so caught up in reading the sometimes funny, sometimes poignant autographs scrawled on the pages by classmates—including a brief quip by her grandfather—that she almost missed the photo embedded in a collage from that year's prom.

No surprise that her grandfather wasn't posing proudly beside her grandmother under a floral archway. Grandma Jan wasn't from Ellington. Nicole's grandparents had met while Frank was attending college to become an accountant. But maybe Nicole had uncovered why Grandma couldn't stand Hannah Breyer.

Frank and Hannah had been high school sweethearts.

Had Grandpa and his old flame picked up where they left off when he and his bride returned to Ellington? She could see how Hannah might do anything, including seduce a married man, to try to get out of that awful Elling house. Was the baby under the rose garden Grandpa's and Hannah's?
That would mean the child wasn't Samuel Elling like everyone assumed.

Nicole's pulse fluttered. She struggled between hope and horror. How awful for Grandma if Grandpa strayed. Shame on him! But at least if the child wasn't the Elling baby, the stigma of kidnap and murder would lift.

Maybe Hannah went away somewhere to give birth and then returned to Ellington with her little surprise for Frank. A scrap of the letter Nicole found in the trash had said “after all we've been to each other.” Had the missive been a demand that Frank meet his lover and child somewhere? Then what happened? Something accidental, of course. No way Grandpa Frank would hurt a baby. But if he would betray his wife and bury his love child in secret, why would he draw the line at—

What was she thinking! Nicole slammed the yearbook shut. This whole speculative scenario stunk. None of it rang true, because it didn't depict the man Nicole had known all her life. Maybe the photo of Hannah and Frank together didn't mean anything. Lots of high schoolers went to prom together on a casual basis. Then why was this issue of the yearbook stolen from the Keller attic?

Nicole flipped Darlene's book open again and scanned pages scrawled with personal autographs. Maybe the clue wasn't the prom photo. Maybe it was something a classmate had written in Grandpa's book. In that case, whatever had been said might be lost forever into the hands of whoever didn't want their sins uncovered.

There was one person who might know how much stock Nicole should put in the prom photo. Hannah Breyer. But a chat with her meant another trip to the house on the hill. Nicole's stomach turned. But then, she'd swim across a river infested with alligators to finally lay all these terrors and suspicions to rest.

 

Rich got off the phone with the accountant who was going over the sewing shop's books. She wasn't done with the project by any means, but so far had found no irregularities to report. In fact, she commended whoever had kept the financial records. They were impeccable. Good for Jan Keller, but a dead end for his investigation. Not that Rich had held high hopes this avenue of inquiry would hit pay dirt. But maybe it would yet. He'd give the accountant more time. And then there was this other thing….