A Cloud of Suspicion. Patricia Davids

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ in years. Perhaps not since he’d left a decade ago.

      The steamy Louisiana humidity wasn’t kind to bare wood. He’d be lucky if there wasn’t rot in the steps leading up to the narrow front porch.

      He put down the kickstand and swung his leg over the seat. Standing upright, he stretched a few residual kinks out of his back. Los Angeles was a long, long way from Loomis.

      He’d spent last night at the hotel because his stepfather’s attorney’s office had been closed when Patrick rolled into town. In a way, the delay had been good. He certainly hadn’t wanted to revisit his personal ghosts at night. It was hard enough in the light of day.

      The only bright spot in the whole trip had been seeing Shelby Mason again. It surprised him how attractive he found her. He’d made a habit of avoiding serious involvements with women, and with good reason.

      What would it be like to be an ordinary man in Loomis? To speak to a pretty woman without worrying about the stares and whispers?

      Forget it. It’s not going to happen. If I needed proof, I got it this morning.

      He was here to settle his stepfather’s estate, nothing more. He couldn’t change the past. All he could hope for was to profit from the present.

      Avoiding the inevitable for a few minutes longer, he walked around the side of the house.

      His boots crunched on the crushed oyster shell path that led past the detached garage to the backyard. He noticed the garage was in better shape than the house. The outside of the building was covered with new vinyl siding.

      His stepdad had always enjoyed working in his shop, tinkering on his car or his lawnmower. A love of engines was about the only thing the two of them had in common.

      Walking to the rear of the house, Patrick stopped at the sight that met him. The grass was knee-high. Honeysuckle vines and kudzu ran rampant over the chain link fence at the back of the property. An air of neglect hung over everything.

      Looking at the single live oak tree in the center of the yard, he noticed a piece of weathered rope dangling from a branch. It was all that was left of the tire swing he’d used to hone his throwing arm.

      He closed his eyes and breathed in. The coy, sweet fragrance of the flowering honeysuckle took him back to his childhood.

      He could almost hear his mother’s voice calling him in to supper from a game of hide-and-seek with the neighborhood kids. How many summer evenings had he spent catching fireflies in this yard? How many nights had he camped out here under a makeshift tent with his best buddy, Wyatt? How many times had Wyatt’s family taken him along on their fishing trips to their cabin in the woods?

      Sadness crept over Patrick. How could so much heartache and pain reside in the same place where he had known such happiness as a kid?

      “I’m surprised you came back.”

      Patrick’s eyes flew open at the sound of a man’s voice. Turning around, he found himself staring at his friend, Wyatt, grown up now and watching with dark eyes narrowed in displeasure from the back porch of the house next door.

      Patrick swallowed the bitterness rising to the back of his throat. “Hello, Wyatt. It’s nice to see you, too.”

      Wyatt Tibbs dropped his gaze. His lips pressed into a thin line, then he said, “Sorry about your stepdad.”

      “Thanks.” Patrick motioned toward the well-kept white bungalow with blue shutters where Wyatt stood. “How are your folks?”

      Making small talk was easier than tackling the big issue that lay between the two men. At least it was something.

      “They moved to Arizona a few years back. I own the place now. Are you staying long?” Wyatt’s tone made it plain that Patrick wasn’t welcome.

      Resentment simmered as Patrick stared at his former friend. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll move back here for good,” he suggested with thick sarcasm.

      A woman’s voice called out from inside Wyatt’s house. “Honey, breakfast is ready.”

      Wyatt glanced from Patrick to his own door and then back. “Staying isn’t a good idea.”

      “I didn’t do it, you know.” Patrick had no idea why he felt compelled to defend himself again after ten years. No one had believed him then. Nothing had changed.

      Wyatt stared at him for a long moment. “Like I said, staying isn’t a good idea.” He walked into his house, letting the screen door slam behind him.

      Annoyed with himself for caring so much, Patrick blew out a breath between pursed lips and headed back to the front of the house. He needed to get rid of this part of his life. For good.

      Climbing the steps, he pulled out the key his stepfather’s attorney had given him a short time ago and unlocked the front door.

      The clinking of silverware against china and the murmur of voices surrounded Shelby as she waited on everyone to finish their French donuts. After licking a dusting of powdered sugar from her lips, she took a sip of her second cup of coffee.

      Across the table, Wendy began folding and unfolding her napkin. “I heard they might cancel the Mother of the Year Pageant.”

      Jocelyn nodded. “Ava Renault mentioned that the planning committee has seriously been considering it.”

      Wendy crossed her arms and rubbed her hands up and down her sleeves. “After Jillian Morrison got a note telling her to withdraw or end up dead and then poor Nancy Bailey had bleach thrown in her face—well, it’s a wonder anyone is willing to be a contestant. I certainly don’t want to be nominated.”

      “What do you think about canceling it?” Shelby asked Jocelyn.

      “On one hand, I see it as an act of respect for Angelina and Dylan’s deaths and Leah’s disappearance, but on the other hand, it means the town is giving in to fear. I hope they don’t cancel it.”

      Looking from Shelby to Jocelyn, Wendy said, “I know y’all were close friends with Leah in high school so you know her better than almost anyone. Do you think there’s any truth to the rumor that Dylan Renault is Sarah’s father?”

      Shelby bit her lip. It wasn’t possible, was it? Yet Dylan Renault’s dying words had been, “Sarah’s father.” Words whispered in the ear of FBI agent Sam Pierce, Jocelyn’s husband.

      No one was sure what Dylan meant by them but there was plenty of speculation.

      Sensing Shelby’s hesitation, Wendy arched her eyebrows. “You know something you aren’t telling us.”

      Shaking her head in denial, Shelby said, “I only know that Leah worked as Dylan’s secretary before she married Earl and that Dylan made her uncomfortable with his attention. She stopped working for him pretty abruptly after that company Christmas party four years ago.”

      Jocelyn tipped her head slightly as she stared at Shelby. “Did something happen at that party?”

      A shiver ran over Shelby’s skin. She didn’t like thinking about that night. She had attended at Leah’s insistence СКАЧАТЬ