Unmasking The Shadow Man. Debbie Herbert

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СКАЧАТЬ consciously listening for an out-of-place sound, her brain remained on high alert. So far, coming home hadn’t eradicated her fear of old ghosts and things that went bump in the night. Yet, she owed it to herself to stay and confront the memories head-on. With each bit of clothing donated or trash discarded, with the stripping away of each material possession tied to the house, Harper hoped to sweep away the remaining cobwebs of mystery and sadness.

      Sighing, she admitted defeat. No matter how much she needed eight hours of shut-eye, sleep eluded her. Experience taught her that when all else failed—a hot bath, yoga, warm milk and a misting diffuser of lavender essential oil—the best remedy was to read the most boring material available. Harper climbed out of bed, strolled to her mom’s bedroom and emptied out a drawerful of old papers from her desk. Might as well kill two birds with one stone, get rid of outdated paperwork and read until her eyes became so blurry she’d be forced to close them and drift off to never-never land.

      She carried a stack of papers to the bed, fluffed a pillow behind her back and dug in. Outdated checks, old warranties and instruction manuals—Mom was clearly old-school and didn’t trust keeping records on a computer. But two-thirds of the way through the stack, an official government record caught her attention.

      Her breath caught at the heading: Autopsy Report of Presley Lee Catlett. The yellowed sheet of paper shook beneath her trembling fingers as she read on. “Cause of death: Asphyxiation from severe spinal cord injury at the fourth cervical vertebra.” Paragraphs of further medical description continued, describing the damaged tissue on the base of Presley’s skull and trauma to internal organs, all consistent with smoke asphyxiation. “Other findings: Deceased was nine weeks pregnant. Signed, Dr. Thomas J. Lumpkin, Pathologist.”

      Pregnant? In stunned disbelief, Harper slapped the report against her thighs. “Presley was pregnant?” she squeaked in the silent room, as if someone was nearby and could respond. Why hadn’t her mother ever mentioned it? Harper stood and paced, running a hand through her tousled hair. She’d imagined herself all cried out years ago, but a fresh well of grief burst inside. Nine weeks, so her sister had to have known about her condition before her unexpected death.

      And so had Mom. Yet she’d never mentioned a word of it to Harper. Why not? Did she imagine shielding her from the news would make her sister’s death any less painful?

      Who else knew about this? Did the biological father know? Harper abruptly stopped pacing, recalling Presley’s old boyfriend, Allen Spencer. They’d broken up days before Presley’s accident. She hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but now she couldn’t help wondering. Did Allen break up with Presley when, or if, she told him about the pregnancy?

      A sliver of muted light shone through the lace curtain. Another day dawning. And yes, learning about the pregnancy made Presley’s early death even more tragic.

      Would Presley have kept the baby? Harper rather thought her sister was the kind of girl who would do just that. And maybe, just maybe, that had enraged her ex-boyfriend. Maybe even enough to kill her.

      Harper crawled back in bed and rubbed her temples. Allen was no killer. The man was a well-respected preacher now, had been for many years. Last she’d heard, he was married with three kids. Besides, whatever she’d seen or not seen that night, it certainly wasn’t Allen.

      She had to get out of the suddenly stifling house. The only place open this early in the morning would be the Dixie Diner, Mom’s old place of employment. A chocolate crème–filled doughnut and a vanilla latte would provide a welcome sugary distraction. On a whim, Harper whipped out her cell phone and texted Kimber to see if her old friend had time to join her calorie fest.

      She was in luck. Kimber agreed to meet her there in thirty minutes.

      “I CAN’T BELIEVE that murder last night was so close to you,” Kimber said with a shudder. “Practically in your own backyard.”

      Rhoda, a waitress, hovered nearby, smoothing her hands over her apron. “Heard about it on the radio this morning. Not what you needed after all you’ve been through.” She patted Harper’s shoulder in sympathy before returning to wait tables.

      “Did you see or hear anything?” Kimber asked.

      “I’d rather not talk about it.”

      Kimber nodded. “Okay. I get it. If you change your mind later, give me a buzz.”

      Harper soaked in the sweet, heady scent of chocolate, coffee and fresh-baked doughnuts that permeated every square inch of the rustic diner, which sported turquoise Formica tabletops, waitresses in white aprons and local folks sipping white mugs of steaming coffee. It was like stepping into a 1950s soda shop. Even the windows were clouded with condensation, and Harper imagined herself embraced in a cozy cocoon of warm deliciousness. Just what she needed after last night.

      “Here ya go, honey,” Rhoda said, returning with Harper’s food and drink. She patted Harper’s shoulder. “I think of your mom every day.” The two had worked the morning shift together for nearly three decades. She shook her head, her gray curls straining against a black hairnet. “Keep expecting her to breeze through the door any minute and put on her apron.” Rhoda turned to Kimber. “What’ll it be this morning, sweetheart?”

      “Toast and black coffee.” Kimber smiled at Harper’s wince as Rhoda sauntered to the kitchen. “What can I say? I’ve been on a perpetual diet since having kids.”

      “You look great,” Harper assured her. And she did. Kimber was a tall, cool blonde with terrific bone structure and a homecoming queen aura, even if she’d finished high school eons ago. Smart, too. Owned a successful real estate company and ruled her roost of husband and three kids with an easy aplomb that Harper couldn’t help but admire.

      “How’s the house prep coming along?” Kimber asked. “Don’t forget, I have a cleaning crew that can make short work of it for you. Reasonable rates.”

      Harper waved a dismissive hand. “I remember. I need to go through a lot myself, but after that, I’ll give them a call. Text me their info.”

      Kimber nodded. “I understand. Lots of old memories tied up in the place. How much longer you reckon it’ll take? Aren’t you worried about your business in Atlanta?”

      “I’m going to call my assistant today and have her take over a couple of outstanding jobs. She can contact future customers and explain there’ll be a short delay due to a family emergency.”

      “I’m sure they’ll understand. Just give me the word when you’re ready to place your house on the market. It might be difficult—it’s an older home—but I’m the best.”

      “Even after what happened to Presley in the house?” she asked doubtfully.

      “It won’t be the first home I’ve sold where tragic accidents have occurred, so even though it’s an obstacle, I know how to overcome it. Not all agents do.” Kimber laughed. “Not that I’m trying to rush you for a commission. Hell, I wish you’d move back to Baysville.” Her classically sculpted face grew pensive. “I could use a friend.”

      “You?” She scoffed, surprised at Kimber’s words. “You’ve got plenty of friends. You’ve lived here all your life.”

      “Mmm-hmm,” she murmured, not revealing anything. “But small towns can be lonely places.”

      Harper СКАЧАТЬ