Chapter 42 #3
"Yes," Walter said, "Lockwood hated it. I told her it would ruin our reputation. Even Bennett wouldn't champion it. But Aubrey... she wouldn't listen. She stood right up and greenlit the whole thing. She's talking about a twenty-year roadmap."
"Twenty years," Anne repeated. The words were quiet, but they carried a hard, brittle edge.
"She's acting like she's never going back to Philadelphia," Walter muttered, shaking his head. "She's laying down roots."
Anne stared at him for a long beat, the gears clearly turning behind her eyes.
Then, as quickly as the chill had arrived, the dazzling, radiant smile snapped back into place.
She patted his arm affectionately, a gesture that felt a little more dismissive than before, though Walter was too dazed to notice.
"Oh, Walter. What would I ever do without you?" she said smoothly, stepping back and reclaiming her sunglasses from the top of her head. "You’ve always been my rock. We need to get a drink later, for old times’ sake, okay?"
Walter’s chest swelled. "I'd... I'd like that, Anne."
"Wonderful." She blew him a quick, breezy kiss that didn't require her to actually touch him, and then pivoted on her heel.
The warmth left the hallway the second she turned her back. Her smile vanished, replaced by a tight, furious line as she marched straight down the corridor. She didn't look back at Walter, who was still standing by the water cooler, watching her go.
Blackwood Ridge Road
Thursday Afternoon
Burke didn't drive back to the Sheriff's Department.
Instead, he pulled his truck beneath a sprawling oak overlooking the valley and killed the engine.
The afternoon sun filtered through the windshield. For a moment he simply sat there.
Then he picked up Mabel Blackwood's planner.
The worn leather cover was scuffed at the corners.
Used. Loved. The kind of thing a person carried every day.
Burke flipped it open.
The first page held emergency contacts. The second contained birthdays. The third held a quote written in Mabel's neat handwriting.
Life is too short to drink bad wine or waste time on people who don't call back.
Burke snorted.
That sounded about right.
He turned the page.
January.
Every square was full.
Meetings. Deliveries. Staff notes. Appointments.
Tiny handwritten notes crowded every available margin.
Mabel documented everything.
Burke settled deeper into the seat and began turning pages.
February.
March.
April.
Most of it was routine.
Then one entry caught his eye.
Meeting with Deck. Philadelphia.
A few days later—
Deck update on Aubrey.
A week after that—
Call Anne. No answer.
Burke frowned.
He turned another page.
Meeting with Eleanor. Discuss options.
Called Anne. Refused to speak with me.
Deck investigating housing options if Aubrey visits.
Visits?
Burke sat up a little straighter.
Another page.
Called Anne again. Still refuses.
Two days later—
Tea with Patsy.
Lunch with Eleanor.
Will revision.
His brow furrowed.
Will revision?
Months before her death?
He flipped ahead.
The pattern became impossible to ignore.
Updates from Deck.
Calls to Anne.
Meetings with Eleanor.
And one name that kept resurfacing.
Patsy.
Tea with Patsy.
Church luncheon with Patsy.
Call Patsy.
Patsy coming by.
Burke tapped the page with one finger.
Who the hell was Patsy?
He turned another page.
Then stopped.
One entry had been underlined twice.
Met with Eleanor.
If Anne won't come, perhaps Aubrey will.
Burke read it again.
Slowly.
If Anne won't come, perhaps Aubrey will.
A breeze rattled the leaves overhead.
He leaned back, the planner resting open on his lap.
This hadn't started as an inheritance plan.
Mabel Blackwood had spent nearly a year trying to bring somebody home.
Why?
His phone buzzed.
This time Burke picked it up and called the office.
Sara answered on the second ring.
"Jackson County Sheriff's Office."
"It's Burke."
"Hey, Sheriff."
"You at your desk?"
"For the moment."
He glanced back at the planner.
"Need you to run somebody down for me."
"Name?"
"Patsy Jordan."
Sara paused.
"Patsy Jordan?"
"That's right."
"She a suspect?"
"Not unless Mabel Blackwood was murdered by a seventy-year-old woman over tea."
Sara was quiet for half a beat.
"That sounds weirdly possible in this county."
Despite himself, Burke smiled.
"Find me an address."
"You got it."
He ended the call and looked back at the planner.
Page after page told the same story.
Mabel had been preparing.
Not just a will. A plan.
Like she knew time was running short.
Burke's radio crackled ten minutes later.
"Sheriff?"
He lifted the handset.
"Go ahead."
"Found your Patsy Jordan. Patricia Jordan. Seventy. Widowed. Lives off Old River Road in Cullowhee. No criminal history. Longtime member of First Baptist. Looks like she taught Sunday school for about forty years."
"Any connection to Mabel?"
"Nothing official," Sara said. "But Frannie says they were close. Like close close. High school friends, church friends. The kind of friends who don't need an appointment."
Burke slowly closed the planner.
The investigation hadn't gotten simpler.
It had gotten bigger.
Who was Patsy Jordan...
...and why had Mabel trusted her enough to help orchestrate whatever this had been?
Burke started the truck.
The road to Cullowhee waited at the bottom of the hill.