Patricia Davids - A Cloud of Suspicion

“Which means he got away with it,” Wendy declared. “No wonder she looked like she’d seen a ghost. Do you think there’s a connection between Leah’s disappearance, the murders and his sudden return?”

Was there?

Shaking her head, Shelby lifted a laminated menu from the metal holder at the end of the table. “I don’t see how. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence that he’s here now. His stepfather died a few weeks ago.”

Wendy looked unconvinced. “He could be back to get his revenge. Did y’all see the cold way he looked at Coral? First a murderer loose in town and now a rapist. I’m telling you, Shelby Sue, I have no idea what this town is coming to. I feel like locking myself in the house and swallowing the key.”

Reaching across the table, Shelby covered Wendy’s hand with her own. “Then who would help me run the library, Wendy Jean?”

“No one. I’d lock you in the house with me.”

Jocelyn slipped her arm around Wendy’s shoulders. “We should all be careful, but we can’t hide from life. Now more than ever, the people of this town—particularly the children—need normalcy.”

“And caution…and mace,” Wendy declared. “I’m getting y’all cans of pepper spray the minute we leave here.”

Shelby smiled. “You know what a klutz I am. I’d end up spraying myself in the face.”

“Don’t make light of this. I’ve lost one friend already. I don’t want to lose you, too. Maybe if Leah had had something to defend herself with…” Wendy’s voice trailed off.

“I think about that, too,” Jocelyn added quietly.

In the sudden stillness, Shelby knew they were all thinking the same thing. Three people they knew had been murdered. Leah was most likely dead, her body disposed of somewhere in the trackless miles of swamp.

A killer was still on the loose in their town. How soon would he or she kill again? Who would be the next victim?

The house wasn’t much to look at.

Patrick turned off his bike and sat staring at the sky-blue cottage situated near the outskirts of Loomis. His childhood home, such as it was, hadn’t seen a new coat of paint 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.”