Beth Andrews - On Her Side

It’d never bothered Nora, not in the same ways it had her sisters or her father. Probably because she’d been so young when her mother had disappeared. Or maybe it was because she’d understood at an early age that she couldn’t escape the gossip so instead, she’d decided to give the town something to talk about. Good things. Positive things. They could talk, but she’d made sure they did so on her terms.

It was easy enough. She’d just been herself. And in doing so had found herself elected homecoming queen and earned the spot of valedictorian of her high school graduating class. Her successes had carried over into college and then law school and she had no reason to think any of that would change now that she worked at her uncle Kenny’s law firm. She was used to the spotlight.

She had to admit, she rather enjoyed being all lit up that way. Call it an inflated ego, but she did so love shining bright for all to see.

But maybe this one time she could slip under the radar.

Anthony followed Nora into the cavernous foyer, with its expensive tile floor and high ceilings. She waved at the firm’s receptionist, Jodi McRae, as they passed and went down the hall toward their offices.

Nora stopped outside her closed door and moved her laptop to the hand already holding her briefcase. “How about lunch today?” she asked. “My treat for you picking me up.”

“You sure it’s a thank-you gesture and not a bribe for my agreeing to keep my mouth shut?”

“Who says it can’t be both?”

“I do hate to say no to a good bribe, so yeah. Okay.”

“Great. You choose the restaurant. Thanks again for the ride.”

Inside her tiny office, she shut the door behind her and leaned back against it. Chewed on her lower lip. She had some big decisions to make. She’d crashed and burned with Griffin, had gone down in a spectacular blaze of glory all because she’d underestimated him.

Pushing away from the door, she tossed her purse onto the chair in the corner then crossed to her desk and set her laptop down. She was supposed to drive down to Boston Thursday for her first meeting with the investigator one of her friends from college had recommended. But that wasn’t going to happen since her car wouldn’t be ready until Friday. Guess she should have thought of that before she started swinging that crowbar.

Besides, without Griffin’s help, without the information he could provide, would a P.I. be able to track down Dale? What were the chances someone in the private sector could do so when the police had failed?

She toed off her shoes, began to pace in front of her desk, the low-pile, pewter carpet rough against her bare feet. Maybe Griffin’s refusal to help was fate’s way of telling her to back off. Maybe it was her salvation.

She shut her eyes and could’ve sworn she heard the Hallelujah chorus. She could blow off this whole idea right now by calling the P.I. and telling him she changed her mind.

Wouldn’t everyone be thrilled if she decided to finally be the meek, mild-mannered girl those who took her at face value expected her to be? The girl her family had long ago stopped hoping she’d turn into. One who didn’t make waves, didn’t cause problems and kept her mouth shut. Who sat back and let her older sisters and father take care of everything. Who trusted things would somehow magically work out with no help, input or manipulation from her.

Yes, she could do that. And she would. Right after she gave herself a lobotomy with a cereal spoon.

Trust me, the best thing that could happen for everyone is for Dale to remain missing. Leave the past alone.

Griffin’s words floated through her mind…strengthened her resolve. She dug her phone out of her purse and placed a call.

“Good morning,” a perky female voice said. “Thank you for calling Hepfer Investigations. How may I help you?”

“Uh…good morning.” She cleared her throat. “This is Nora Sullivan. I have an appointment with Mr. Hepfer Thursday at five.” Her fingers tensed on the phone. “I’d like to reschedule.”

“Of course, Miss Sullivan. What day works best for you?”

“Actually I’d like to offer Mr. Hepfer twice his normal consultation fee if he can meet with me in Mystic Point. Today.”

Leave the past alone?

No way in hell.

* * *

“AFTERNOON,” SOMEONE CALLED later that day as he walked into Griffin’s garage.

Griffin rolled out from underneath the Impala he was working on, sat up and nodded. “Can I help you?” he asked.

The man, Jimmy if the script written on the left of his blue uniform shirt was anything to go by, held out a clipboard. “I just need you to sign here and tell me where you want it.”

Griffin glanced at the clipboard then got to his feet and wiped his hands on the rag he kept in his back pocket. “I never sign for something I didn’t order.”

“This Eddie’s Service?” Checking his paperwork, Jimmy frowned. His stomach hung over his belt, strained the buttons of his shirt. “At 1414 Willard Avenue?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re Griffin York?”

“That’s right.”

“Then it’s your delivery,” Jimmy said mulishly, holding out the clipboard again.

This time Griffin took the paperwork, skimmed it. He had no idea why his name and the garage address were listed under delivery recipient. “I didn’t order a ’69 Firebird,” he said, handing the clipboard back. “And I haven’t been hired to do a restoration on one.”

Jimmy scratched his round head, knocking his hat off center. “Says here—” He flipped a page, scanned it. “The owner’s name is Tanner Johnston. He a customer of yours?”

“No,” Griffin said. Tanner Johnston. Hadn’t he always known the quiet, seemingly harmless ones were who you had to look out for most? “Not a customer.”

“I gotta call my supervisor.” Jimmy’s face was red and sweat dotted his upper lip and brow. Guy looked like he was one heavy breath away from a heart attack. “See what he wants me to do.”

Griffin lifted a shoulder. “Suit yourself.”

While Jimmy pulled out his cell phone, Griffin went outside, too damned curious not to. Squinting against the bright afternoon sun, its warmth beating down on his head, he crossed the lot toward a shiny blue truck bearing the name of a towing company from Boston on its side.

Hands in his pockets, he circled the back of the truck where the remnants of what could possibly have been, at one time, a red—or maybe orange—Firebird sat on two front bald tires. The body looked like it was held together with rubber bands and a prayer. There was no rear end, no front grille and it looked as if the car had been overrun by leaves and possibly squirrels. He hopped onto the back of the truck, peered into the interior. Gutted. Seats, carpets and dash.

He eyed the hood. Opened it warily. Sighed. No motor. No transmission. He let the hood shut, brushed off his hands.

A tan minivan pulled slowly into the lot, creeping to a stop at the back of the truck. A moment later, Tanner Johnston, star center for Mystic Point’s varsity basketball team, unfolded himself from behind the steering wheel.

Tanner shut the door and studied Griffin. Christ, but he hated when the kid did that, looked at him as if he could read his mind. See into his very soul. Gave him the creeps.

“Hey,” Tanner said, walking toward Griffin in his usual easy pace. The only time the kid moved fast was on the basketball court.

Griffin crossed his arms and leaned back against the Firebird. Hoped it would hold up under his weight. “Something you want to tell me?”

Tanner stopped and tipped his head back to maintain eye contact with Griffin. He nodded slowly once. “I bought a car.”

“Don’t delude yourself. You bought a pile of scrap metal.”