Pamela Tracy - Clandestine Cover-Up

“Well,” Tali said. “Enough speculation. We’re glad you bought the property, although I wished I’d known it was for sale. I didn’t even know until recently that Lydia Griffin owned the place. Her name wasn’t the one on the deed.”

Angela raised an eyebrow. “How do you know that?”

Yes, Tamara thought, how do you know that? Although she didn’t say it out loud, Tamara knew for a fact that she’d seen Lydia’s name on much of the paperwork. Billy’s name, though, had been on the purchase agreement and most of the other documents.

“We looked at it before we rented this place. We were thinking more a combination breakfast/lunch kind of place where we could maybe sell a few antiques. We also thought it would be a good idea to own our place of business instead of rent. We tried to make an offer—I mean, the building’s just been left there to rot—but while we could find an address for the owner, a P.O. box in Colorado, no one responded to our inquiry.”

“Do you remember who you wrote to?” Tamara asked.

Tali shook his head, but Sharon looked thoughtful. “I remember it wasn’t Lydia. It was some sort of trust or corporation.”

Vince took off work early. It wasn’t that much of a hardship. He’d spent all morning at the hospital where he’d been running conduit. Then, during the afternoon, he’d started cutting out holes for electrical outlets. Just before two, Gloria Baker, the head nurse who pretty much ruled the hospital, came in, pursed her lips and then took off.

His boss, John Konrad, showed up a few minutes later. It seemed the outlets were not where the nurse wanted them. Although they were where the blueprints said they should be, it looked like the nurse outranked the project manager.

An hour of work wasted, and now tomorrow he’d be not only cutting more electrical socket holes but filling in old ones.

He clocked out in pretend disgust.

Actually, disgust had nothing to do with it. He’d been looking for an excuse to leave since noon. He wanted to check on Tamara.

Her car looked forlorn in the old church’s parking lot. He parked next to it and started walking toward the front door. A mountain of garbage bags was behind the church. The front porch was swept and a new blanket already covered the bench. Vince wasn’t surprised. He’d doubted Tamara knew how to take it easy. He tried to open the front door and found it was locked. He knocked.

No one answered.

Taking out his key—the one Lydia had given him to use only in case of an emergency—he let himself in while calling Tamara’s name.

Still, no one answered.

The dust in the room wasn’t quite as bad as the last time he’d been inside. Already much of the loose paper and junk had been carted from the main room. All that remained were the broken pews and some shattered glass in a corner.

He cleaned it up; he didn’t want her to cut herself.

Afterward he continued looking for her, but she wasn’t anywhere inside the church. Dread, tangible and spreading, washed down the back of Vince’s neck. Opening his wallet, he found Tamara’s cell phone number and dialed.

She answered on the first ring. He didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Where are you?”

“I’m eating lunch at Yano’s.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“Good, the ravioli’s wonderful.”

It sounded as if she was chewing while she was talking. Good. Last year, when they’d walked down the aisle during Lisa’s wedding, she’d been curves and power. Now, since her ordeal with the stalker, she was thin, too thin. Maybe with a bit of meat on her bones, she’d get some of the power back.

He missed it.

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