Chapter 18
Kale still wasn’t sure how he’d managed to do it, but he’d gotten Sarah Newton to agree to dinner with his folks.
He had to admit, the lady cleaned up damned good.
Black was still her color, but the dress was an interesting departure from the usual slacks and tee.
When he’d noticed she’d stuck with the Converse sneakers, even wearing the dress, he’d almost laughed.
She hadn’t missed his stifled mirth. She’d informed him that along with her snow boots, gloves, and sunglasses, she’d failed to pack a pair of heels.
The dress, she claimed, went everywhere with her . . . just in case.
Didn’t matter. She looked good in the dress that contoured to her shape like shrink-wrapped plastic. The curves he’d recognized even beneath that bulky parka were every bit as tempting as he’d anticipated.
She might be as stubborn as any man he’d ever met, but from those shapely calves to the curve of her cheek, she was all woman.
When she threw her head back and laughed at something his mother said, he smiled.
The silky, thick mass of loose blond curls usually previewed by the wisps peeking from her ski cap made a man want to run his fingers through them.
His fingers twitched as if the thought had gone straight from his brain to those tips.
Other thoughts, far less polite thoughts, were barging straight to his—A hard knock on the shoulder snapped him from his obsessing.
“Help me set the table, Kale,” his little sister demanded. She pushed her glasses up her nose. “You think just because you brought company that you don’t have to work?”
Kale straightened away from the counter. “Okay, okay. Don’t be a pain in the—”
Ellen, his mother, cut him a look that closed his mouth. Newton belted out another of those throaty laughs.
He liked her laughter. The tough New York girl vanished and this soft, sexy woman emerged.
What had sent that side of Sarah Newton into hiding? That sweet, earthy female was right there hidden beneath all that streetwise urban attitude.
A stack of plates poked him in the abdomen.
He grunted, grabbed the plates before Polly dropped them on his feet. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
Kale had to work at keeping his eyes off his guest as he rounded the table, leaving a plate in front of all but one of the chairs. Polly followed his path, leaving silverware and linen napkins. Their brother wouldn’t be home for spring break for a couple more weeks.
“The chief has no idea where to start with this investigation, does he?”
Kale glanced at his father, whose wheelchair already had been parked at the head of the table. “He’s doing the best he can,” Kale reminded him. “There’s not a lot to go on.”
Peter Conner made a disparaging sound. “He’ll do about like he did the last time.”
Kale divided a look between his father and Newton, who had turned her attention from the cook and the dinner rolls in the oven to listen in. “Let’s hope not,” he commented, hoping to defuse the conceivably volatile topic.
“What do you say, Sarah?” his father asked their guest. That was exactly what Kale had hoped to avoid.
Peter Conner never had been friends with Ben Willard. Kale hadn’t been able to get the story from his father about what had gone wrong between the two men, but something was there, and it went back as far as Kale could recall.
Newton walked over to the table and pulled out a chair. “This could take some time, Mr. Conner,” she said.
“Obviously I’ve got nothing better to do.
” Peter gestured to the wheelchair that was his prison.
Although he was paralyzed from the waist down, the devastating injury hadn’t altered his sharp intelligence in the slightest. The man didn’t miss a thing, and he never thought twice about having his say.
Who was going to slug a guy in a wheelchair?
Newton nodded. “Valerie Gerard was murdered by someone she knew who had a vendetta against her. The act was personal. The grudge deep and fierce. This was no random act.”
“I’ll bet you’ve been telling Willard this since you got here.”
She smiled, not that indifferent gesture she’d tossed around on first arriving. This one was full-lipped and completely genuine. “You would be right.”
Peter shook his head. “That hardheaded man never listens. He’s got to do every damned thing his own way.”
“Watch it,” Ellen warned.
“It’s the truth.” Peter dismissed his wife’s counsel with a wave of his hand. “The only reason he’s still the chief is because that’s what folks think they’re expected to do. Elect or commission a Willard. They’ve been doing it for four generations.”
“Dad,” Kale pressed, “let’s not make tonight about bashing the good guys.”
His father harrumphed and promptly ignored his son. He was clearly enjoying the pretty lady’s attention. “And Alicia Appleton?” he queried. “You have a theory about her as well?”
Polly suddenly adopted a model pose. “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful,” she crooned. “I can’t help myself. I was born that way.”
“Polly!” The reprimanding tone of his mother’s voice was nothing to compare with the admonishing stare that accompanied it. “You should be praying for that girl, not making cruel remarks.”
“It’s true,” Polly sassed, “and you know it. Alicia thinks she’s all that and nobody else in the world matters.
She’s a snob. Nobody at school will tell her because they’re afraid of being shunned.
But they all secretly say it behind her back.
I don’t know why Brady follows her around like a stupid puppy.
Alicia thought I liked Brady and got all mad at me.
It’s Jerri Lynn Pope she should be worried about.
If Alicia gets killed, Jerri Lynn will dance on her grave. ”
“That’s enough, young lady,” her father growled. “It’s one thing to discuss the flaws in the investigation but quite another to speak unkindly about the victims.”
Polly rolled her eyes and shuffled off to get the water glasses.
Peter turned his attention back to Newton. “As much as I hate to speak ill of the poor girl, Polly’s got a valid point. Alicia Appleton’s mother has spoiled her beyond all reason.”
“Peter,” Ellen scolded him as she tossed her oven mitt aside. “You’re as bad as Polly.”
“According to Brady Harvey, Alicia has no enemies.” Newton draped one arm over the back of her chair and crossed those shapely legs. “Under the circumstances, I find that a little odd.”
“You mean”—Kale pulled out the chair next to her—“because she wins everything and all the kids orient their social lives around what she’s doing or planning.”
“That’s exactly what I mean. Jealousy is a part of human nature.
Enemies go with the territory when you’re the most popular girl in school.
” She looked from Kale to his father. “There is no way Valerie Gerard was murdered and Alicia Appleton was taken hostage by a person who hated them both enough to carry out that kind of action without someone noticing something. People see, sense, and ultimately talk. All we need is for those who know to start speaking up.”
“Unless it’s the devil,” Polly tossed in as she settled a glass at each plate. “Matilda Calder says it’s the devil.”
Kale groaned. His father’s brow furrowed. But it was his mother who came unglued. “Don’t tell me you’ve been talking to that girl again.”
“Tell me about Matilda.” Newton addressed her question to the room at large. “I ran into her at the cemetery today. What’s her story?”
“She’s nice but weird,” Polly said despite her mother shaking her head in abject disapproval.
“That little girl,” Ellen explained, “is a fifth-generation illegitimate child. Those Calder women have repeated the same mistake time and time again. None ever married and barely bothered to raise their offspring.”
“At least they had the good sense to stop at one,” Peter offered. “That alone is a miracle considering the number of gentlemen callers they’ve all entertained.”
“Calderwood Lane,” Kale pointed out, “was named after Mattie’s father who was supposedly an illegitimate great-great-grandson of Thomas Young, the village founder.”
“That’s never been proven,” Peter interjected.
“What does Matilda’s mother do?” Newton wanted to know.
Kale and his father exchanged a knowing look. “The oldest profession,” Kale said quietly.
“She’s a prostitute,” Polly piped up. “They say she uses drugs, too, but Matilda doesn’t do any of that stuff. She’s just that creepy kind of weird. Reads about witches and stuff all the time. She has a pentagram in her bedroom. It’s kinda scary but really cool and—”
When the room fell tomb-quiet, Polly realized she’d stuck her foot deep into her mouth. Her face flushed.
Kale groaned.
“And how would you know this, young lady?” Peter demanded.
“I . . . I . . . ah,” Polly stammered.
She looked to Kale for help. No way was he getting in the middle of this.
“Don’t you ever go back to that house again,” Ellen ordered. “Why, there was a nine-one-one call over there just yesterday.”
Newton’s radar visibly rose. “Someone sick?”
“Nooo,” Ellen said, dragging out the vowel. “Matilda’s mother claimed someone had broken in and taken some of her personal belongings, but she refused to say what exactly they took.”
“And you think that’s not quite right,” Newton suggested.
Ellen shrugged. “We all know there’s nothing in that shack anyone would bother with except what she couldn’t report.”
“Drugs?” Newton speculated.
“That’s what folks say,” Peter said with a somber nod. “It’s a very bad situation.”
“She lives on West Street,” Kale explained. “That was the call that held up Karen yesterday.”
“Polly,” Newton said, “where does Alicia go to church?”
Polly slid into the chair across the table from their guest. “Methodist. Same as the Harveys. Why?”
“Just curious.”