A knock at his front door interrupted Luke’s thoughts. Stacey Navolsky, owner of the bookstore, stood outside. Hand to the glass, she peered through the window.
Tucking the tail of his flannel shirt into his jeans, Luke hustled to the door and undid the trio of locks.
“Stacey,” he said, opening the door. “You’re up and out early this morning.”
The bookstore, like the hardware store and most every other business on Main Street—save for the coffee shop, La Dolce Vita—didn’t open until 10:00 a.m. Luke hadn’t looked at the clock, but it couldn’t be much past eight in the morning.
Stacey was a petite woman in her fifties, with streaks of gray in her golden hair. Her typically bright blue eyes were rimmed with red. “I’ve had the worst night, Luke. You know how George has been sick the past few months. Well, we finally figured out what’s wrong.” She paused. “He has esophageal cancer.”
The floor seemed to shift under Luke’s feet. Memories from his youth, and of his dad’s illness, came rushing back.
Gripping the doorjamb, Luke pushed away the past. “Stacey, I’m so sorry. What do the doctors say? What can I do to help out?”
“We have to go to see a specialist in Wichita next week. After that, we’ll know more. As far as helping out...” Stacey paused. “I really can’t chair the Boo-fest anymore. I was thinking about posting on social media and asking someone to step up. But I wanted to speak with you first to see if you’re able and interested. People like you, Luke. They trust you. You’re a natural leader.”
Luke interrupted, “I appreciate all your praise, but you don’t have to butter me up, Stacey. I’ll take over as the chairperson. Besides, you have bigger things to worry about than a downtown festival.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” said Luke. His head began to ache. He needed a double shot of espresso. Then again, cash flow was down, and he didn’t want to spend money he didn’t have. “I’ve got everything under control.”
“Here,” Stacey said, and withdrew a large, three-ring binder from a canvas bag she had draped over her shoulder. “This is the outline of everything I’ve done so far.”
Luke accepted the heavy tome, realizing too late that he’d taken on a bigger job than imagined. Maybe, just this once, he’d splurge on a coffee. He didn’t know how he’d get through all the information without one. “Thanks,” he said, flipping through the first few pages. “This looks very thorough.”
“Well, I better get going,” said Stacey.
“Absolutely.” Luke walked with her, pulling the door open. “Give George my best. Again, if you need anything, let me know.”
“You’re doing more than enough,” she said. Rising to tiptoe, she placed a small kiss on his cheek. “You are a great guy, Luke Walker. I hope some smart woman snatches you up—and quick.”
At thirty-one years of age, Luke heard comments about his bachelorhood all the time. It wasn’t that he wanted to be perpetually single. He had yet to find the right woman.
Stepping out onto the street, Stacey gave one last wave before turning toward her bookstore.
Luke followed and remained on the sidewalk. A breeze blew, sending a piece of paper skittering down the street. He picked up the rubbish and placed it in a bin. Gooseflesh rose on his arms and it wasn’t just from the weather.
Luke felt a tickling at the back of his neck, just a whisper of pressure, as if he were being watched—and he knew by whom.
Casting a glance over his shoulder, he searched for the ever-present dark blue sedan. It was there, just as he knew it would be, parked across the street. The pale face of his ex-girlfriend, Julia, was unmistakable in the driver’s seat.
Maybe the term ex-girlfriend was a little too generous for their relationship. Luke had dated her briefly over the summer. They’d had no more than half a dozen dates before he ended the relationship.
Soon after, she started watching the store and his apartment upstairs. At first he tried being honest—telling Julia that their romance was not meant to be.
She disagreed.
He blocked her phone when she continued to call and text.
He blocked her again when she changed her number.
He threatened to contact the police—something he never intended to do.
His warning changed nothing.
He threw away the letters she left in the morning and vowed to never look in her direction.
Eventually, she’d get bored, right?
So far she hadn’t.
Without another glance in Julia’s direction, Luke stepped back into the store. Despite his need for coffee, he didn’t want to cross the street and risk a confrontation with Julia. Taking his time, he re-engaged all three locks.
What had started as a long day had just become a lot longer. Then again, Luke wasn’t the kind to complain.
He was invested in Braxville’s success as more than a business owner, being a lifetime resident, as well. So, yeah, there wasn’t much of anything he wasn’t willing to do—even become the last-minute chairperson of the festival—for his hometown.
* * *
Bridgette pulled her car next to the curb, taking a spot behind a blue sedan. Main Street in Braxville was like walking into a page from a history book—coming from a time when life was simple or at least seemed that way. The street was lined on both sides with small shops and restaurants. Most were built of brick, pressing cheek to jowl with one another and only rising three stories from the ground. Glass storefronts gleamed in the morning sun, and light posts of wrought iron stood on every corner.
It was hard not to smile.
After stepping onto the sidewalk, she strode up Main Street and cast a glance at the blue sedan. A dark-haired woman gripped the steering wheel with knuckles gone white. Her gaze was locked on the front door of the hardware store.
The woman took no note of Bridgette, yet her stare left Bridgette walking a bit faster.
Walker Hardware. Now that was a place Bridgette hadn’t thought of in years.
While growing up, the dad of her friend had owned Walker Hardware.
For a moment, she wondered what had become of Luke Walker. Was he still in Braxville? Or was he just another ghost from her past that haunted her still?
Pulling open the door to La Dolce Vita, she was greeted with the earthy scent of roasting coffee beans. Several round tables filled the center of the room. A glass-and-chrome pastry case separated the restaurant from the area where coffees and other beverages were prepared. Her older sister, Jordana, a detective with the Braxville Police Department, already sat at a table near the window.
She stood as Bridgette approached and pulled her in for a big hug. “How are you? I’m so glad that you’re home.”
“It’s good to see you,” said Bridgette, embracing her sister in return. Jordana was as tall as Bridgette, five feet nine inches. Her older sister wore her hair in a loose bun and had donned a long jacket in olive green that brought out the auburn highlights in her hair. Years ago, Bridgette learned that Jordana’s clothing choices had nothing to do with fashion and all to do with function. Without a doubt, the jacket had been chosen to cover her sister’s sidearm. Bridgette continued, “Then again, I’m not sure that I’m actually happy to be back. It’s been a rough morning already. Do Mom and Dad get along at all?”
“No,” said Jordana honestly. She returned to her seat. “They fight constantly. It’s a bit tiring.”
“A bit?” Bridgette asked with mock incredulity, while sitting across from her sister. “Can I be candid? I don’t think that I can stay at the house while I’m in town. Do you know of any place I can rent?”
“Rent? Be serious. You can live with me. Clint is around a lot, but you’ll really like him.”
“Live with you and your new boyfriend? No, thank you. I’d rather stay with Mom and Dad.” She winked to show that she was teas
ing, yet the last thing Bridgette wanted was to interrupt her sister’s newest romance.
“Sorry I can’t be more helpful, but I really can’t think of any place on the market.” Jordana paused. “Maybe Yvette knows some place that’s available.”
“Speaking of Yvette,” said Bridgette. “Where is our baby sister?”
“She’s running late. There’s a big case.”
“What happened?”
Before Jordana could answer, a server arrived with two cups of coffee and chocolate croissants. “I took the liberty of ordering for you,” said Jordana. “I hope your tastes haven’t changed while living in the big city.”
“There’s nothing better than Megan Parker’s pastries,” she said, mentioning the coffee shop’s owner. After taking a big bite, Bridgette continued, “Besides, my tastes haven’t changed at all. I live in Wichita, not on the moon.”
“And how is life? Really?”
Bridgette knew what Jordana was asking. It had been nearly two years since Bridgette’s husband, Henry, died in a car accident. The food turned to sand in her mouth, and she washed it down with a swallow of coffee. “Work is good,” she said.
“There’s more to life than work.”
“I belong to two book clubs,” said Bridgette. “I attend a yoga class three times a week and volunteer at the local dog shelter every other Saturday. I have a life, thank you very much.”
“Anyone cute at the dog shelter?”
“There is this adorable lab-mix, but he was adopted last month.” Bridgette took another bite.
“Har-har,” said Jordana. “Anyone cute who walks on two legs? Preferably a human.”
“None that I’ve seen.”
“Have you even bothered to look?”
“Honestly,” said Bridgette. “No. And before you try to get all big sister on me and boss me into having a relationship, I’m not good at romance. Period. End of story.”
Jordana reached for Bridgette’s wrist and squeezed lightly. “You are too young to give up on love. Henry was a great guy. We all thought so and we all miss him, too. He’s gone and that’s tragic, but I don’t want to see you alone for the rest of your life.”
“That’s the point,” said Bridgette. She pulled her arm away and reached for a napkin. After wiping her mouth, she continued, “It’s my life.”
Jordana lifted a hand in surrender. “I get it. I’ll back off.”
“You get what?” Yvette asked, standing next to the table. Yvette had the same dark hair and eyes as Jordana, but the similarities ended there. Then again, Bridgette was a triplet and she looked nothing like her brothers, Brooks and Neil. Yvette continued, “What’d I miss?”
Standing, Bridgette embraced her baby sister. “Nothing, really,” she said, not wanting to share the almost quarrel with Jordana. Bridgette didn’t know what she would do if both of her sisters teamed up and tried to force a new man into her life.
“Mom and Dad argue too much,” said the eldest Colton daughter. She stood and hugged Yvette. “Bridgette’s looking for an apartment. Know of anything?”
“I might, actually,” said Yvette. They all took their seats. “Let me talk to a few people and get back to you.”
“Thanks so much,” said Bridgette. She took another bite of her pastry. “Jordana said that you’re working a big case. What happened?”
Yvette gave their older sister an unmistakable side-eye. “We really aren’t supposed to talk about work, but two bodies were found in the walls of a building that Dad’s company is renovating.”
Bridgette choked on her coffee. “What?” She spluttered. “Never mind. I might be a Colton, but I’m not a cop.” She glanced at her smart watch. It was 8:20 a.m. “Shoot, I didn’t realize that it was so late. I need to scram. How much do I owe for breakfast?”
“It’s on me,” said Jordana.
Bridgette didn’t have time to argue with her sister. “I’ll treat next time,” she said, while grabbing her bag and heading for the door. Luckily, Bridgette’s temporary office was located in City Hall and only blocks from where she had parked her car. If she hurried, she could go back to her auto and grab the plate of muffins her mother had prepared. That would help smooth over any rough edges a minute of tardiness might cause.
As she hurried down the street, Bridgette marveled that the Braxville of her childhood had changed very little. Yet, it seemed as if the quaint downtown, the tree-lined streets and the well-kept homes were little more than a facade.
There were bodies buried in walls. Clusters of cancer cases. And the woman from before still sat in her car and stared across the street.
Despite the charm of her hometown, Bridgette knew that Braxville was hiding the answer to more than one mystery.
Chapter 2
The Kansas State Department of Health had set up their temporary office in City Hall, located across the street from the town park and only a few blocks from the coffee shop where Bridgette had parked her car.
She took the stairs to the second floor and found the suite of rooms assigned to the DOH at the back at the building. Juggling her bag and the plate, Bridgette pushed the door open with her hip. A round clock hung on the wall. Not only was she on time for work, she had made it with four minutes to spare.
The office was a single room with several workstations around the perimeter. A large conference table sat in the middle of the space. A dry-erase board filled half of one wall. On it was a list of names. Several windows overlooked the back street and Bridgette could see the roof of her father’s office, Colton Construction, in the distance.
Two men, at separate workstations, held phones to their ears. A single woman sat at the table. A pile of folders was stacked at her elbow. She looked up as Bridgette crossed the threshold.
Holding up the plate of muffins, Bridgette said, “Morning, folks. I brought food.”
The woman stood. “Welcome. You must be Bridgette Colton. I’m Rachel Shaw, I went to school with your brother, Tyler.” She pointed to one of the men, an African American with a goatee, “That’s Adam Stevens and the other guy is Carson Mathews.”
Carson wore a short-sleeved shirt covered in a tropical print. He turned his seat. With the phone still to his ear, he waved and mouthed, Good morning.
Adam ended his call and moved to the table. “Food?”
Bridgette set the plate down and removed the foil. “Homemade muffins,” she said. “Help yourself.”
Adam took a bite. “You are quite the cook.”
“Thanks,” said Bridgette. “I’m staying with my parents until I find an apartment in town, so they’re compliments of my mother.”
“Good job, Mrs. Colton,” said Adam, finishing his last bit.
Carson ended the call. He moved to the table and took a muffin from the plate. “Nice to meet you.”
Bridgette made a mental note to thank her mother. Lilly had been right—food had helped to make inroads with her new coworkers. “Since we’re all here,” she began, taking a seat at the table, “let’s get started.”
For the next twenty minutes, Bridgette was briefed about the cancer clusters. In short, a study showed that twenty years ago, six men had developed esophageal cancer. Two died, and four were either in remission or struggling with the cancer’s return. Then, more recently, another group of men had been diagnosed with the same exact cancer.
“What are your thoughts?” Bridgette asked.
“It’s too specific to be random,” said Adam, helping himself to another muffin.
“So, it’s not bad luck,” said Bridgette, echoing her father’s earlier sentiment.
“No way,” said Rachel. “It has to be environmental. The men aren’t related.”
“Smokers?” Bridgette asked. “Other tobacco use? Are they all heavy drinkers?”
“Two men from the first group smoked more than a pack of cigarettes e
ach day,” said Carson. “No other tobacco use is listed. A few admitted to regularly consuming more than three drinks a night before becoming ill. If this was caused by alcohol or tobacco, why aren’t more people sick?”
“That’s a good point,” said Bridgette. She rose to her feet and walked to the dry-erase board. “Are these all the cases?”
“It’s everyone we have so far,” Adam said. “The original names are on the left. The newly diagnosed patients are on the right.”
Bridgette scanned the list of names. Her gaze stopped on a name she knew from her childhood.
Ernest O’Rourke.
For years, he had been her father’s foreman.
Bridgette asked, “Do you have contact information for all of the men?”
“Sure do,” said Rachel. She pulled the pile of folders toward her seat.
“Can you find this one?” asked Bridgette, pointing to Ernest’s name.
Rachel flipped through the files. “Here you go,” she said, holding out a manila folder.
Bridgette looked at the information. The address was still the same. For a moment, she was transported to years before. She was sitting on the bench seat of her father’s truck. A meal, prepared and packed by her mother, sat between them.
Her father tapped the steering wheel, keeping time with the latest song on the country station. At the chorus, both father and daughter bellowed the words. As the song ended, Bridgette dissolved into peals of laughter. For her, it had been one of the few perfect moments spent with her father.
What if there was more than she remembered or more than she’d been told?
Had Ernest been sick then? Was that why they were delivering food?
“I’m going to start with this case,” she said, holding up the file. “In fact, I’ll interview him right now.”
“Now?” echoed Adam. “We usually make an appointment first. Otherwise, we don’t know if the patient has time—or the inclination—to speak with us.”
What Adam said was entirely true—and DOH policy. “Ernest O’Rourke will have time for me.”
“How can you be so confident?” asked Rachel.
Colton's Secret History Page 2