Jodi Thomas - The Secrets of Rosa Lee

This card had to hold the answer. The secret her mother had never taken the time to pass on. A secret her grandmother had thought they must never forget.

Sidney shook her head. She’d taken a teaching job here at Clifton College because of this one card. She had moved halfway across the country in search of a secret she would probably never find.

As darkness settled, Sidney knew she would not sleep tonight. The house waited for her. Tomorrow the mayor’s handpicked committee would meet to decide what was to be done about the place.

She smiled, remembering the list of committee members. Like her, most were well-known in town…well-known and without influence. It had taken her several days to determine why the mayor had chosen them. At first, she had been honored, thinking he had noticed the articles she’d written about the house in the local paper. But when she’d met with him, she’d known the real truth.

Most folks might only see her as a middle-aged, shy professor, but behind her glasses was a sharp mind. Sidney knew enough about politics to realize that this was an election year, and Mayor Dunley didn’t plan to do anything to lose votes. If he decided the fate of Rosa Lee’s house, some group in town would be upset. But if he let a committee do it—a committee made up of people connected to everyone in town—no one would contest the outcome.

Red and blue lights blinked in her back window. Sidney glanced in the Jeep’s rearview mirror. It was too dark to make out anything but a tall shadow climbing from the police car. She didn’t have to see more. She knew who it was.

Sheriff Granger Farrington leaned near as Sidney rolled down her window.

“Evenin’, Dr. Dickerson.”

Sidney smiled. The man seemed as proper and stiff as a cardboard cutout of the perfect small-town lawman, all starch and order. She might have believed his act if she hadn’t seen him with his wife. “Good evening, Sheriff. Is there a problem?”

“No, just making sure you weren’t having car trouble.”

“I’m fine. How’s Meredith?”

A grin cracked his armor. “She’s taking it easy. Doc says another month before she’ll deliver. I’m thinking of buying stock in Blue Bell. If she eats another gallon of that ice cream, the baby will be born wearing a sweater.”

“She craves it, and you supply it.”

“Yeah, we’re in a twisted relationship. She’s a Blue Bell junkie, and I’m her contact.” He laughed, then straightened. “I’m surprised you’re here after dark; haven’t you heard the stories about this place?”

“I heard about them from a few students after I wrote the articles on the house. A madman running through the garden. Chanting in hushed tones drifting through the air, coming from nowhere. Old Rosa Lee’s ghost circling the garden, dripping blood over her roses.” Sidney laughed. “You believe any of them?”

The sheriff shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything but kids parking out here on Saturday night. Adams caught some football players smoking pot in back of the house a year ago.”

Sidney started the Jeep, guessing the sheriff wouldn’t leave until she proved the engine would turn over. He’d given her Jeep a jump twice last winter and, knowing Granger, he’d probably heard about the time one of his deputies had helped her when she’d run out of gas along Cemetery Road. She couldn’t help but wonder if she was on his duty roster. Something scribbled in among the orders, like “watch out for the dingy professor who can’t seem to keep her Jeep running.”

The sheriff tapped the canvas roof as the Jeep’s engine kicked in. “You know, Dr. Dickerson, when you get ready, Whitman will give you a good trade-in on a car. He’s got new Cadillacs, but the trade-in lot’s got a little of everything.”

“I’ll think about it.” She started to ask one more time if he would call her Sidney. They were about the same age, and he was as close to a friend as she had in this town that welcomed newcomers with the same enthusiasm as they welcomed fire ants. “Good night, Sheriff.”

He touched his hat with two fingers and disappeared back into the shadows.

Sidney glanced once more at the old house. Cloaked in shadows, it looked romantic, mysterious, haunted. She could almost believe that Rosa Lee, who’d lived all ninety-two years of her life there, still watched over the place.

“Never forget the secrets of Rosa Lee,” Sidney whispered and wondered what waited behind the solid double doors.

Doors that had kept out the world for a lifetime.

Across town in the Clifton Creek Hotel, Sloan McCormick dropped his leather duffel bag on the tiny hotel bed and growled. He hated sleeping with his feet hanging off the end. At six foot four, it was the rule rather than the exception when traveling.

He also hated small towns with their cracker-box hotel rooms, where neon signs blinked through the thin drapes all night long and sheets had the softness of cheap paper towels.

Emptying his pockets on the scarred dresser, he tried to think of one thing he liked about this assignment. He thought he’d grown used to being alone, but no place made him feel more alone than a small town, and Clifton Creek was a classic. In a town over fifty thousand or so, he could blend in, look familiar enough so that folks returned his smile or wave. But in a place this size, people knew he was a stranger and treated him as such.

“Get the job done and get out.” He repeated his rules. “Never get personally involved.”

Sloan pulled a pack of folders from his bag and walked to where one of the double lights above the headboard shone. In the dull glow, he went over the list of committee members.

The Rogers sisters would be no problem—he could probably charm them. Both were retired schoolteachers. From what he’d gathered, they were much loved in the community. Though they lived modestly—small house, used van—he was surprised to discover close to eight hundred thousand in their combined savings accounts. A nice little nest egg for the two ladies.

He flipped to the next file. The professor, Sidney Dickerson, would not be as easy to convince. He had listened outside her classroom. Facts, not dreams, would interest her. But, he wasn’t sure how to get to her. Dr. Dickerson’s interest in the Altman house was far more than mild curiosity. She’d proved that in the half-dozen articles she’d written for the paper.

He flipped to the next member of the mayor’s committee. The preacher, Micah Parker, might be convinced “for the good of the community.” Sloan had rarely seen a man above thirty so squeaky clean. The private eye he’d hired couldn’t dig up a single whisper on the widower, not even in his hometown.

The last two folders belonged to the troublemaker, Billy Hatcher, and the ad executive, Lora Whitman. Both would probably go for money if he offered. Hatcher worked at the lumberyard and did odd jobs around town. Except for one brush with the law, he’d stayed below the radar. Lora Whitman was another story. She appeared to have lived her life in the public eye ever since she was six and had posed for her father’s car ads. When Sloan had flipped through the weekly paper’s archives, he’d seen several pictures of her. Homecoming queen, cheerleader, fund-raising for one cause then another. Her wedding picture had covered half a page.

Sloan spread the members’ fact sheets across the bed. He only needed four to swing the committee. But which four?

He grabbed his Stetson and headed toward the bar he had seen a few blocks away. “Time to go fishin’,” Sloan mumbled.

Micah Parker didn’t believe in ghosts. He reminded himself of this fact as he jogged toward the edge of town, but there was something strange about the old Altman house. It drew him the way ambulance lights on a highway lured curious drivers.