“Yes, exactly that.” Lester held the door for him, and they stepped into a tile foyer overlooking a carpeted, sunken den with stone fireplace. The house possessed an ’80s feel but an open layout and quality fixtures. Not a bad potential flip project in itself.
Lester directed Scott’s attention to a framed montage of photos on the wall depicting various decades of his life with Ruby. He pointed to one in particular, a youthful Ruby in a voluminous 1950s skirt and sweater set, standing beside a two-tone Chevy with an older man and woman—presumably her parents.
“Ruby came from a much wealthier and better educated family than mine, the only child, no less. She was a member of the Junior League and class president. Her father was a lawyer. My daddy was with the railroad, and not its management. Not even a conductor. Ruby thought I was just like all the ruffians from my neighborhood. But I had aspirations. And football was my way out of the boon docks.”
“Like Austin.”
“Who?”
“My stepbrother. Football was his ticket to the good life until an injury sidelined him his freshman year in college.”
“Austin Matthews?”
“Austin Culpepper.”
“Oh, right.” Lester’s gaze narrowed on him, and for a second, Scott glimpsed the fiery Coach Wentworth. “I remember Austin Culpepper. Big sensation a few years back for Richmond County. My team always dreaded when we played you guys.”
Scott laughed. “Well, they never played me.”
Lester clapped his shoulder. “That was a lot to compare to.”
“I didn’t even try. I was a runt back then. What I did have was a talent with wood. Thankfully, so did Austin’s dad. When he married my mom, he also became my mentor.”
“And now you work in the family business. I’m glad it ended up well for you, son. For many, it doesn’t. Divorce and remarriage are painful under the best of circumstances. I’m guessing you don’t want that. One shot deal, right? That’s why you haven’t married yet?”
Scott grinned and rubbed his neck. “Actually, I’m probably not married because I’m too slow to speak up.”
Lester grinned back like a co-conspirator in some diabolical plot. “Come with me.”
Scott followed him into a spacious kitchen with a massive island and updated, expensive appliances. “Nice reno.”
Lester tapped the granite counter. “About six years ago, Ruby wanted these, so I gave her what she wanted, see? I got the new stainless. I was still cooking then. Even though I’d retired from coaching, it was a tradition for us to have the football team over every Friday before the game. Can you imagine how many carbs twenty male athletes can consume?”
Scott nodded. He’d forgotten about Lester’s culinary background.
“That was before this dratted tremor. It got worse fast. I hadn’t thought about closing the restaurant up. But God has His plans. He knew my wife needed me as the kids left the nest and she retired from teaching. But I do miss cooking for her. And although she won’t say so, she does too. You see, my offer isn’t totally selfless. I need your help.”
“My help?”
Lester nodded. Only then did Scott notice that his host stood behind an array of ingredients, from spices and nuts to oatmeal, brown sugar, and raisins. “Wait. We’re going to … bake?”
“It’s time to make the hermits. A little early, I admit, but your problem gives me an excuse to push the timeframe.”
“Hermits? What is a hermit, besides a reclusive person? And what does it have to do with my … problem?”
Lester smiled and pushed a worn cookbook toward him. “Hermits are the cookies of the season. The cinnamon and nutmeg say ‘welcome, fall!’ The nuts and raisins can get you through an afternoon better than any granola bar. I grew up baking these with my mother every September. She was the one who taught me something every woman knows, including what Miss Goody Two-Shoes Ruby Scottsdale learned really fast. If a man can cook, he can do anything. And with his cooking, he can say anything. Can you cook, Scott Matthews?”
Chapter Eight
“She left her purse?”
“Shh.” Shelby jabbed an elbow into her sister’s side when Angelina’s strident hiss earned a stare of rebuke from the librarian.
The middle-aged employee glared at them from behind the desk of the Georgia Heritage Room. Angelina responded with her own stare, eyebrows raised, before turning back to Shelby.
Angelina moderated her tone if not her enthusiasm. “Aren’t you glad we loaded the Herald as well as the Chronicle onto microfilm? Otherwise, we’d never know that Sharon Barnes left everything! Clothes. Keys. Money. Purse. I mean, leaving my purse somewhere might not be a big deal, but for most people like you, it would. Think what that means.”
Shelby pondered for a moment. “It probably means she was taken.”
“Or killed.” Angelina met her eyes, then jabbed a finger at the screen of the humming microfilm machine. “It said ‘with no trace.’ Who better to accomplish that than the husband?”
“He said she walked out after an argument.” Shelby glanced at the sepia photo of a lovely brunette. Coupled with the emotionally embellished write-up, the likeness presented the sweet young mother as the victim of foul play.
“Of course, he did. The article also reports the police were investigating Charles Barnes.”
Shelby shot her sister a skeptical sideways grimace. “They probably had it out for him from the start.”
“For good reason. She’d called the police the week prior during one of their arguments. The question is, do you want your clients moving into a house that has a good chance of having hosted a murder?” Angelina shivered, then pressed the button to forward the tape.
“Wait. I wanted to see if there were later reports.”
“You know he wasn’t arrested. The only way you’re going to learn more is if you talk to him yourself.”
“Ugh.” Shelby opened the case for her sister to place the 1976 newspaper reel inside.
“So? Shouldn’t the Wentworths be told?”
“Of course, but they don’t seem as concerned as I am.”
“Because this reflects on your career, right?”
Shelby scoffed. “What career?”
After paying the austere librarian, they made their way through scanners into the main section of the library, allowing them to raise their voices a notch.
“Scott was right. I’d be better off to drop this obsession I have with the Barnes case.” Shelby slung her purse strap over her shoulder and gave herself a little shake as if to shed the unpleasant news they’d just learned.
“Me, I like a good mystery. You, it drives crazy.” Angelina winked. Her mischievous grin made her appear more pixie than ever.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have told you about all of this.” Shelby rolled her eyes. “I don’t know why I can’t just put it out of my mind.”
“I do. You don’t want folks saying it was your bright idea to help a sweet, older couple create a retirement nest out of a murder house.”
Shelby cringed. “That would definitely be the worst-case outcome.”
“I can tell it keeps eating at you.” Angelina squeezed her arm as they pushed through the exit doors. “That’s why I suggested we come here today. I know you won’t rest until you get answers.”
“Thanks, Ang.”
“Sure thing. Nancy Drew did her best work with a trusty sidekick.”
Shelby smiled, but Angelina’s earlier statement left her uneasy. Had her sister unwittingly hit on something? Deep down, if Sharon Barnes had been murdered, which worried Shelby more—how the Wentworths would feel about their new home, or what people would say about Shelby?
Exiting the atrium of the three-story building onto Telfair Street, she shoved that concern aside. Did it matter, when proving Sharon wasn’t murdered would bring everyone peace? And if she had been murdered—well, better the PR nightmare uncovered early and controlled than one that reared up and bit you unexpectedly.
A linge
ring wisp of morning cool promised an end to the tropic heat and prompted Shelby to release a sigh of satisfaction. “Ah, the first day of September, the start of my favorite season.”
Angelina glanced at her watch. “Girl, this sleuthing is gonna make me late to class. But it was fun.” She reached out and grabbed Shelby for a hug, smacking a kiss on her hair.
The gesture warmed Shelby’s insides, filling something that had been lacking since their mother moved to Columbia. She was glad they’d reached an understanding over the weekend, moving the green chair upstairs and setting up the second bedroom together as Angelina’s art studio.
Shelby didn’t want to go to the bungalow today, but one wall of stubborn floral paper remained in the dining room. Scott probably realized a job unfinished would taunt her. Why did she care if he thought her prissy and unskilled? He sure couldn’t decorate a room like she could!
But she found herself driving down Heard Avenue. Shelby might not have recognized the bungalow had it not been for Scott’s truck parked in the driveway. And well, the faded burgundy house exterior. But they’d removed the overgrown wax myrtles planted along the porch, as well as the privet and a diseased willow in the side yard, making the lot look twice as wide. The grass had been cut, and a chain saw roared in the back yard.
Inside, hammering drew her to the gutted master bath, where Todd greeted her as he replaced the subfloor. Todd’s son, Seth, applied a dissolving solution that smelled of strong soap and vinegar to the old wallpaper adhesive in Lester’s den. The number of tacking nails still jutting out of the wall promised hours of frustrating labor, but Shelby could glimpse the sturdy-looking shiplap.
The empty palate of the house now whispered potential. As Shelby walked toward the dining room, mental flashes of design vignettes caused her to smile. She paused, disturbed to realize that she didn’t find decorating a turnkey house near as exciting as one that had been gutted and renovated. That did not bode well for her future, when decorating alone appeared to be her only option. Why was Scott teaching her all this renovating stuff, anyway? And was she wasting her time cooperating?
A lidded Buona cup and a plate displaying homemade cookies with mounded clusters of mouth-watering raisins, dates, nuts, and oatmeal waited on a TV tray. Frowning, Shelby picked up the cup. Room temp now, but a sniff revealed the scent of cinnamon. Twirling it around, she beheld her name scribbled in Sharpie.
“You’re late.”
She whirled at the sound of Scott’s voice.
“I mean, it’s okay. I’m glad you’re here.” He spread his hands—dirt-encrusted, as were his jeans, and his T-shirt already stuck to him despite the mid-morning hour.
Shelby refocused her attention from her co-worker’s physique back to the snack. “Are these for me?”
“Yeah. Sorry the coffee got cold. But obviously that’s because … I thought you’d be here earlier.”
“Is this a cinnamon latte?”
Scott nodded. “I noticed you had one the first day on the job.”
“It’s my favorite. And the cookies?” Shelby didn’t try to hide her astonishment.
“Made them with Lester last night.” Grinning, Scott approached, uncovered the plate, and reached for one of the clusters. “They’re called hermits. From his mom’s cookbook.”
As he took a bite, Shelby lifted a cookie and sniffed it. More cinnamon and other spices. “Why did you make cookies with Lester? I’m sorry, but that’s a little strange.”
“He told me he misses cooking for Ruby. I guess it’s a tradition he started when he was dating her. She was so high-class he was scared to talk to her, so he started watching for occasions to make her something. As we know, he became an awesome cook. He baked her right into getting engaged.”
“That’s sweet.” Overcoming the strange sensation that couldn’t be butterflies in her stomach, Shelby nibbled the edge of her hermit. Fall exploded onto her tongue. “Oh my.”
Scott grinned at her, reminding her in a bittersweet moment of the way her dad once watched her tear into her Christmas stocking. “To be honest, Lester kind of tricked me into helping, but he’s a hard man to say ‘no’ to. He wants me to come again. He has several family dishes in mind leading up to their fiftieth. The way his hands shake now, he can’t do it alone.”
Shelby swallowed, unsettled. Why had Scott brought her cookies and coffee? The cookies could be a lucky offshoot of Lester’s plan for Ruby, but the coffee showed intentionality. She couldn’t believe he’d absorbed such a small detail as her favorite brew so early in their acquaintance. Or re-acquaintance. Maybe he felt guilty for twisting her arm about the work projects.
To break the moment, she raised the cup.
Scott’s hand shot out. “Don’t drink it cold. I’ll take it to Betsy Lou’s and ask her to microwave it.”
Shelby spluttered in laughter. “You’ve met Betsy Lou, and you really think she owns a microwave? She’d probably heat it in a saucepan on the stove … if you offered her money.” She used the excuse of brushing crumbs from her lips to cover her smile.
Scott chuckled, hooking a thumb in the belt loop of his jeans. “She paid me a visit this morning and instructed me to trim rather than remove the hedges.”
“Oh no.”
“Now she thinks it looks too bare, too much view into her yard. I assured her that while we need easier access for the roofers and the stonemasons to rock over the porch stucco, we’ll re-plant something that looks better—and grows more slowly. Which reminds me …” Scott frowned, lowering his head. “You might not want to come the rest of this week.”
“Why? You running out of projects for me?”
“No. Next week you can help Seth with the wallpaper upstairs and removing tacking nails. But tomorrow they’re coming to replace the roof.”
“Oh.” As lead settled in Shelby’s stomach, she lowered the coffee. He knew. Of course he did. Everybody knew. News reports of Chet’s tragic fall on his last flip job had spread all over the state, the nation. Her grief was no private thing. At least the network possessed the sensitivity not to televise those agonizing moments when she knelt by her husband’s broken body, screaming. As a shudder moved through Shelby, Scott’s hand contacted her elbow.
“Let me heat up your coffee.”
Again, with that intensity, that touch offering quiet support after he tried to spare her a painful situation with his advance warning. Shelby couldn’t remember the last time someone had paid such close attention to her. She took a step back, into herself. “You’ll do no such thing.”
The hurt flashed across Scott’s face faster than he could mask it. “Kind of ruins the point to drink it cold.”
Shelby cleared her throat. Rephrased. “I mean, I actually like flavored coffee any temperature. It’s great just the way it is.” When he looked doubtful, she took another sip and smiled to reassure him. “You already went out of your way, although I’m not sure why. But I won’t have you interrupting what you’re doing again. Certainly not to face Betsy Lou.”
“Okay, if you’re sure.” A smile faltered across Scott’s lips.
Funny, his slight sprinkling of whiskers had kept her from noticing how well-shaped they were.
“I’m sure. It was … incredibly kind.”
“It was a peace offering. Lester said I’ve been too bossy with the boss.”
Shelby burst into a laugh, then clasped a hand over her mouth. How could he have her laughing a few seconds after she wanted to cry? She nodded. “Lester would be right, and he found the proper language to beg for my forgiveness.”
When Scott brightened, so eager to please, he resembled his high school self. It crossed her mind that maybe he’d wanted more of her attention back then. The possibility that she’d shunned someone roused the familiar guilt of perfectionism. Maybe after all her effort, she’d failed where it counted most.
“I’ll try to be less opinionated in the future, but I think you can do more than you’ve given yourself credit for.”
Shelby’s lips twisted into a thoughtful smile. “I’m starting to see that. Does that mean you’re going to swallow your own medicine and help me decorate this place?”
“I’m willing to learn.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Suddenly uncomfortable, Shelby bent down for her bucket and vinegar. “Well, I’d better get this project finished up.”
“One wall shouldn’t take you that long. Wanna trim the liriope after you’re done?”
She whirled around, pointing a finger at him before she saw his teasing smirk.
Chapter Nine
The first Saturday of September, Shelby woke with a sense of anticipation. She cracked open her bedroom window, ready to inhale autumn. A somewhat balmy, peaceful day greeted her. She made a face and shoved the heavy pane down. Well, at least the morning breeze off the Savannah would feel invigorating during Augusta’s Market on the River. Local shops carried much of the pottery, art, jewelry, and baked goods one could purchase at the weekly seasonal event, but Shelby always enjoyed an extra degree of satisfaction, making that personal connection as she bought directly from the crafter.
She checked her phone. Last night, she’d texted three friends from the Sunday school class of the large, non-denominational church she and Chet had attended. Never mind that it was a couples’ class. Over the years, Shelby and the ladies frequently met for coffee, movies, or shopping trips, sans husbands. After the funeral, they’d kept her stocked with salads and casseroles. Returning empty dishes with thank-you cards, she never revealed that most of their labors of love ended up in the trash.
Now, a string of texts offered excuses. No, good reasons, Shelby told herself. Christy had family coming into town. Wendy an aerobics class. And Nicole’s morning sickness kept her a few feet from the toilet with a handy box of Saltines.
It felt like forever since she’d had a girls’ day out. Well. Never mind. She had a sister, and sisters were upgraded BFFs. At least, down the road they were supposed to be, after they matured a little. Today would be a good bonding experience.
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