Clandestine Cover-Up. Pamela Tracy

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      She’d seen dead animals before; they didn’t scare her. But something about how the tiny mouse was laid out on the floor in front of her let her know the creature hadn’t died a natural death.

      It had died to prove a point.

      YOUR NOT WANTED HERE.

      She turned, tried to leave, and ran into something hard and unyielding.

      She let out a squeal.

      “Hey” came a deep voice. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

      Whoever blocked her way was all male. The scent of sweat combined with aftershave and heat permeated the room or at least the space directly around her. Her hand went inside her purse. Mace was at the ready, but warm, strong fingers clamped down hard on her elbow before she could snag the small tube and take aim.

      “I’m not going to hurt you, Tamara,” a calm voice stated. “It’s Vince Frenci. I just got off work and was driving by and saw you standing on the sidewalk. You weren’t moving, so I doubled back to see if everything was all right. What’s going on?”

      Her hand still clutched the mace. Tamara could feel her heart pounding, but she didn’t want him to know he’d scared her. Some men fed off fear.

      “There’s a dead mouse,” she managed to say. Her heart still beat a little too quickly. Her feet still refused to move.

      You know Vince, she reminded herself. More than a year ago, they’d walked down the aisle together, thanks to her little sister’s wedding. He’d been a little rough around the edges, but he was her brother-in-law’s best friend. Which meant he probably knew her story, about the stalker and why she’d fled Phoenix, and why two weeks ago, she’d started the move to Sherman.

      It’s a safe little town.

      He let go of her elbow and stepped back. Both of his hands went into the air as if he thought she’d shoot him.

      She looked up at him and loosened her grip on the mace.

      His hands left the air. “Look, if you’re thinking about spraying me, don’t bother. I’ll just back out of here real quick like.”

      She finally let go of the mace. “I’m all right, and I remember you, Vince.”

      It would be hard to forget someone who looked like Vince Frenci. The man in front of her was working class through and through, with dark stubble, black spiky hair and piercing mahogany eyes. His clothes—blue chambray shirt, tight jeans, oversize brown boots—were worn for comfort and use, not for show.

      “So, you want to tell me what’s going on?” he asked.

      “Can I blame the dead mouse for the warning on the door?” she replied.

      “You want to tell me what’s really going on?” Vince asked.

      She shook her head.

      “Well, you need to tell me something. Eventually, I’ll be the one to get rid of the paint on the door. I’ll—”

      “What do you mean, you’ll be the one?”

      “I’ve been the yardman for this property for more than a decade. Every other Saturday, I mow, repair and clean. If something’s amiss here, I report it.”

      “Billy didn’t tell me you worked for Lydia.”

      “Billy Griffin? How do you know him?” Vince asked.

      Tamara held up the key. “I purchased this property from him. Signed the purchase papers about an hour ago.”

      “Hmm,” Vince said. “I didn’t even know this place was for sale. I wonder what Lydia’s gonna think about Billy selling off her property.”

      “She’ll be grateful that her son cared enough to make sure she was taken care of in a top-notch nursing home.”

      Vince shook his head. “I don’t think so. If Lydia had wanted this place sold, she’d have done it years ago.”

      “Why didn’t she? I mean, what a waste of a commodity.”

      Vince shrugged. “If I had to guess, I’d say this plot of land meant something to her family, but she never said anything about fixing it up. She never let anyone inside, not that I know of. I’m surprised Billy sold it, but since he never really lived here in Sherman, maybe he doesn’t know the history of this place.”

      “Or maybe he doesn’t care.”

      “If I know Lydia Griffin, she’s gonna care and Billy will be getting an earful after she walks out of that nursing home on her own two feet.”

      Tamara had met Lydia Griffin last year. At that time, Lydia had been Tamara’s niece’s babysitter as well as Lisa’s more than feisty landlord. Lydia had taken a fall two months ago, hit her head and broken her hip. The day she was supposed to get out of the hospital, she fell and broke her hip again. Now, she was slowly recuperating.

      “I’ve been doing the yardwork since I was eighteen,” Vince said. “That’s one of the reasons I noticed you trespassing.” Then, his expression changed from serious to teasing. “That and your red hair.”

      “I’m not trespassing,” she reminded him. “I bought the place. It was only on the market for two weeks. Billy went looking for a quick sale. It was perfect timing for both of us.”

      “Makes sense,” Vince said. “So,” he asked, “you want to tell me about the door?”

      “I’m actually more concerned about the mouse,” she said. “Killing it and laying it out where I would see it the moment I stepped in the front door took more time and thought than writing on the door.”

      Funny, with him standing next to her the little mouse didn’t look so menacing. She cleared her throat, trying to hold back the fear that was starting again. Sometimes Massey’s memory was an almost tangible thing, letting her know that his clandestine and uninvited visit to her bedroom and its consequences may have happened six months ago, but still felt like yesterday.

      Vince was looking at her as if she might break. She didn’t want that.

      Before he could ask another question, she asked, “When you did the yardwork, did you ever see anything unusual?”

      “Like?”

      “Like paint on the door.”

      “Most I’ve had to do is paint over graffiti on the outside walls. A while back someone was into gang signs, but there hasn’t been any graffiti in the past year. Any chance your stalker followed you?”

      “I just called the penitentiary that Massey’s at. He hasn’t been released.”

      “Could he have sent a friend?”

      “I don’t think he has any friends, but maybe he made one in jail,” Tamara said. “I’ll make a few calls later, find out if his cellmate or someone he palled around with has been paroled СКАЧАТЬ