Trace of Doubt

by DiAnn Mills

  Officer Hughes and I stared at her for clarification.

  “Shelby and I can see each other on Sundays in church. No one will suspect a thing.”

  “We’ll discuss it,” he said.

  “No, we won’t. You have no say in what I do at church, especially since you never darken the door.”

  He held up his clipboard that had the note attached. “I have my report to submit. I’m waiting here until you drive off. Then I’ll swing it by the sheriff’s office and pick up my bike.”

  A bicycle would allow me to report in to the parole officer, explore the town, research at the library, find a printshop, stop by to introduce myself to my new employer, visit Pastor Emory, and even pay a visit at two boutiques. Such a long list. What I couldn’t get done today, I’d finish tomorrow.

  I hugged Edie. There was so much I wanted to say, but not with Officer Hughes observing me through his microscopic lens. I dreaded the next encounter with him. But I’d be armed with my own stubborn resolve.

  I needed Valleysburg. Not sure why, but I believed I belonged here. Someday, if I found favor, I’d call this town home and these people family.

  Maybe not Officer Hughes.

  7

  DENTON

  How strange to feel an emotional connection to a horse again. Not since I was a kid had I been attached to such a magnificent animal. Back in those days, my heart belonged to a quarter horse whose speed challenged the wind. Nothing compared to feeling like the horse and I flew as one.

  In my twenties I exchanged the horse for a silver Camaro. Finished college. Fell in love and proposed to the most beautiful brunette on the planet. Planned a fall wedding. Joined the FBI. My youngest brother jabbed at my career choice every chance he got. So I committed to nail Shelby Pearce for life. My future slid downhill from there . . .

  My life lay in shambles, and I blamed her. My parents wanted me to talk to their pastor, but why? God was using me as a whipping boy.

  “Great way to spend the morning.” I brushed the sides of Big Red to cool my constant companion.

  He shook his head to chase away a fly, but it looked like he agreed.

  “What do you think of Shelby Pearce? I’ll tell you a few things first. Those blue-gray eyes, long honey-colored hair, and sweet voice might lead a man to distraction. Not me. When she was fifteen, she broke into her high school and vandalized the girls’ athletic trophy case. She also had two arrests for underage drinking and took a neighbor’s car joyriding. That’s just a drop. But I know what she did to her family, and one of her crimes remains an open case.”

  My brain must have been hit by buckshot to talk to a horse about a string of crimes that happened over fifteen years ago. She’d pulled the trigger on a man, leaving her sister a widow and an unborn baby without a daddy. Add the disappearance of five hundred thousand dollars.

  Upon her release from prison, she’d chosen Valleysburg to supposedly begin her life all over. I knew exactly what she planned—sit tight until she could get her hands on the money. No doubt she had an accomplice who worked the sidelines.

  I’d been given another chance to prove myself to the FBI, and this time I refused to be defeated. I’d been given an undercover assignment to locate the stolen money. I took up residence in the community and set up my role. Shelby had blinded the parole board, Edie Campbell, and Pastor Emory. But I’d expose her. No one had the right to steal from a nonprofit organization that housed, schooled, and fed African orphans.

  My cell phone alerted me to a call from Mom with “Hey Jude.” The ringtone always took me back to the days of her at the piano playing and singing Beatles songs. Dad, my two younger brothers, and I learned every word.

  “Hi, Denny, this is Mom.”

  I chuckled. Who else could it be? “What’s happening with the fam?”

  “That’s why I’m calling. Our annual barbecue cook-off is in three weeks, and I wanted to make sure you were coming. Your recipe always wins, but your brothers are perfecting theirs.”

  I pictured my dark-haired mom doodling on a scratch pad, her normal manner of doing something while on the phone. “Mom, I’m working undercover.”

  “Where?”

  “If I told you, then it wouldn’t be undercover.”

  A sigh met my ears. “I can always ask. Any chance your case will be closed by the cook-off?”

  “I have no idea, but we can hope.” I hated to disappoint her. “But you can tell Dad, Andy, and Brice they will never beat out my barbecue sauce. Mamaw gave me the recipe with the orders it was to be passed down to the oldest son of each generation.”

  “Right, and the competition is between the McClure men. You’d think her own daughter would have it tucked away. But I didn’t qualify.” She huffed.

  “You know Mamaw.”

  “Sweet and sassy. I miss her.”

  “So do I.”

  “Does your undercover work let you work with troubled teens?”

  “No, and I miss it.” I’d been volunteering with Hope for Today’s Youth since the eruption in my life years back.

  “All right, Denny. I’ll let you go, but first I have to ask—”

  I laughed. “No, I haven’t met a nice girl.”

  We ended the call. My family meant a lot to me, but between Andy marrying my ex-fiancée and Brice’s jabs, my brothers had a way of making me feel like day-old coffee grounds.

  A vehicle engine rumbled a familiar sound. Through the barn’s opening, I saw Edie Campbell approaching on foot. “Morning, Edie. You doing okay?”

  “Better than I deserve. Hey, I wanted to ask you a favor.”

  I laid the brush on the trunk outside Big Red’s stall. “I’m listening.”

  “I came from visiting Shelby Pearce. Thanks for showing her a warm, Valleysburg welcome.”

  “No problem. She’s a nice lady. I intend to visit again.”

  Edie moistened her lips. “She’s gotten off to a bad start. Someone shot out my SUV tire when she was with me last night, and today someone shoved a note under her door, letting her know she wasn’t welcome.”

  “Why?”

  She flushed. “Honestly, she came from a rough past.”

  “Aw. An abusive ex?”

  “Something like that. I’m concerned about her.”

  “Edie, did she report it to the sheriff?”

  “My brother responded to the call.”

  “If I see or hear anything suspicious, I’ll let the sheriff’s office know. In the meantime, I’ll look in on her.”

  “Thanks. I need to get back to the office.” She drove off.

  Shelby was released yesterday and already she’d taken a prime spot on a shooter’s hit list. But someone had threatened her more than once. Perhaps an accomplice who wanted all of the stolen cash? Or a person invested in protecting Shelby’s family? Or someone taking a stand against crime in Valleysburg?

  I’d find out.

  8

  SHELBY

  I stepped onto the porch of my cabin, the lure of freedom pulling me into her spell. I never wanted to take the beauty around me for granted.

  I removed my worn journal from my backpack. Settling on a rocker, I opened my journal, an old friend that’s always available for conversation, and clicked the pen. The chorus of insects reminded me of childhood days at my grandparents’ farm west of Houston. Sweet memories of simpler days.

  Four years into prison life, I decided to record my thoughts and emotions, more to help me process my past choices than anything else. In the eighth year, I admitted journaling wasn’t filling the hole in my heart. Jesus stepped in and became my mother, father, sister, and friend. A few times a week, I allowed myself the luxury of writing down thoughts and happenings. But never in the light-filled joy I knew this very moment.

  I wrote of my experiences since yesterday morning. Enduring resistance and persecution after prison had been on my radar. I’d been counseled about the likelihood and thought I was prepared. Officer Hughes had the hostility gene going for h
im, and Denton McClure was at the opposite end of the spectrum. But I didn’t trust either man.

  I headed into my bedroom and returned my journal to its new home, a narrow drawer in my nightstand. A long walk to clear my mind pushed to the surface of my want list. But Officer Hughes hadn’t returned with the bicycle and leaving made me look like a coward. Which was partially true.

  An oncoming vehicle barreled up the drive. Officer Hughes had arrived. At least he wasn’t part of an angry gang. He might be worse if my suspicions were true.

  I met him at his cruiser, and he powered down his window.

  “I appreciate the loan of your property,” I said.

  “Thank my irresponsible sister. I’d rather you walked. Make sure you buy a lock and chain. I get real upset when my property’s abused.” The vertical lines between his brows dug deep. The world must disappoint him on a daily basis. He carried the bicycle onto the porch.

  “Would you like to sit and talk?” I hoped his animosity toward me might take a positive spin.

  “My favorite place to visit with a killer is behind bars.”

  I sighed. The rancid heat of humiliation assaulted me. “From your perspective, I had that coming.”

  “Yep.”

  “Anyone ever give you a second chance?”

  “Never needed it. I’m squeaky-clean.”

  “Officer Hughes, I’m not your doormat. So clean your muddy boots somewhere else.”

  “I expect to receive respect from the likes of you.”

  I refused to respect any bully. “Did you leave the note to run me off?”

  He leaned on one leg. So bully typical. “Nope, it would be breaking the law. Did it work?”

  “I’m here, and I intend to stay. Does the sheriff have the note or was it destroyed?”

  He smirked. “My sister was here when you got it, so she’ll make sure he knows about it. But it’s hard to nail down where a typed note came from.”

  “So you’re the guilty one?”

  He rolled his eyes like I used to do when my parents objected to my behavior. “By the way, the parole officer is expecting you this afternoon. A no-show means a stain against your record.” He tipped his hat and walked to his cruiser.

  9

  The rear bicycle tire flattened about three miles from Valleysburg. The air valve stem cap was missing. I suspected an intentional action on Officer Hughes’s part. I walked the bike into town and stopped at a hardware store. After airing up both tires, I bought two stem caps and a chain and lock. The store owner gave permission for me to keep the bike locked there until I finished with errands. The idea of someone stealing it left a sour taste in my mouth. As soon as I had a few dollars extra, I’d flip for my own two-wheeled transportation.

  Thirty minutes before the parole office closed, I approached a weathered brick building. A sign above the door read, Established 1932. Inside, an arrow indicated various offices on the second floor, and I climbed the wooden steps. Every creak and groan spoke of age and history. At the top, I inhaled a generation gone by and admired the tall ceilings, arched windows, and age-scarred but polished wooden floors. If I owned the building, I’d re-create the era and update only what was needed for safety and convenience.

  Not my purpose this afternoon.

  The parole office occupied a secluded spot at the end of the hall. There I met a balding man with thick black-framed glasses rummaging through a file cabinet.

  “Mr. James Peterson?”

  His glasses slid down his long nose, rather comical, but I knew better than to laugh. “How can I help you?”

  I extended my hand. “I’m Shelby Pearce.”

  “Ah, yes. Have a seat, Ms. Pearce. Officer Hughes stopped by and indicated you were eager to see me this afternoon.”

  I bit my tongue. “Yes, sir. I wanted to make sure I got started on the right foot.”

  He sat at his desk and brought his computer to life. “I was looking at your file earlier. Do you have any questions about the terms of your parole?”

  “No, sir. Do you have noted my job at Amy-Jo’s Café? I begin on Thursday.”

  He nodded and told me he had the verification. I gave him my address, cell phone number, and plans to design jewelry.

  “I see you earned a master’s degree in business while incarcerated. The education will serve you well with your jewelry endeavor and reclaiming your life.” He squinted into his computer screen. “A 4.0 average too. Well done.”

  “Thank you.” I removed my backpack from my shoulders and reached for my denim bag, a gift from my parents on my sixteenth birthday. Inside were two envelopes. “Here are my release papers and cash payment for the monthly parole fee.”

  He examined the contents of each envelope, then counted the money. “If there’s ever a problem in paying the fees, let me know ahead of time. Don’t wait until past the due date.”

  After the formalities and scheduling a weekly appointment, he gave me his card. “Parole is a privilege not a right. My goal is to help you succeed. We’ll begin with high supervision for six months, and Pastor Emory will handle the weekly counseling. If all goes well, we’ll drop to moderate level. Do not hesitate to contact me for any reason. How are you doing with your family’s request for no contact?”

  “Their stipulation is one of the reasons I’m in Valleysburg.” While he typed, my mind wandered. My family broke contact right after sentencing. My sister and I were raised with the knowledge of unconditional love, but I learned some deeds were unforgivable. How could I fault them?

  Mr. Peterson leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over a trim stomach. “What’s your biggest concern right now?”

  Honesty . . . “Someone wants me out of town in a bad way.” I told him about last night and earlier today, omitting my intuitiveness. “I have no idea who did it or why. Edie Campbell has helped me tremendously, and now she could be hurt by association. Officer Hughes gave the note to Sheriff Wendall. If he’s in his office when I leave here, I’d like to talk to him.”

  “The sheriff’s a good man. He’ll untangle what’s going on.” Mr. Peterson picked up his cell phone and pressed in numbers. “This is Jim. Shelby Pearce is in my office, and she’d like to stop by. Will you be there for another hour or so?” He paused and laid the phone on his desk. “I’m going with you.”

  Why was I so paranoid? I hadn’t done anything to warrant a nightmare trip back to prison.

  “Is there anything I should know before we talk to the sheriff? A threat from inside or outside prison? I see you’d received severe beatings from fellow inmates.”

  I pushed aside the memories. “I stayed to myself to avoid too many problems.”

  “Your file says the same thing. Good record, Ms. Pearce. My concern is depression. If you need medical help, don’t hesitate to let me know.”

  Depression could be a formidable enemy. “Yes, sir. Since becoming a Christian, I’m much better equipped to handle my emotions.”

  He smiled and stood from behind his desk. “My car’s in the rear parking lot.”

  At the sheriff’s department, Sheriff Wendall surprised me with his short, thin stature and broad shoulders, as though he’d stopped growing in junior high. A gray felt Stetson sat on the corner of his desk, just like the cowboy hats in the Westerns I used to watch with Dad. Mr. Peterson and I took chairs opposite the sheriff’s uncluttered desk.

  “Is there updated information on the two incidents?” I said.

  “Well, little lady, we haven’t any leads on either one.” The sheriff studied me like I was a specimen under a microscope. “We’re on it. Looks like you’ve made an enemy or two.”

  “If I had a name, believe me I’d give it to you.”

  The sheriff rubbed his chin. “One thing to consider is the missing money.”

  “Ms. Pearce wasn’t convicted of theft,” Mr. Peterson said.

  “But plenty of folks believe she stole it.”

  I drew in a breath to cover my frustration. “Sheriff, if I’d tak
en the money, would I be renting a cabin outside of town?”

  “Doubtful. But someone might see it as the perfect cover-up.”

  “Do you?” I’d had enough of the once-a-criminal, always-a-criminal status. “I’ve paid my debt to society. I didn’t steal from my sister and brother-in-law. Neither am I aware of what happened to their money. While in prison, one of the gangs did their best to find out about it. I couldn’t tell them what I didn’t know.”

  I shook my head. “I’ve asked Edie Campbell to keep her distance until the problem is solved. Two crimes have been committed against me since my release. They weren’t coincidences, and my fear is whoever’s responsible has just started.”

  “What about Travis Stover’s family?”

  “Last night I checked online, and they are still missionaries in Bulgaria. He was an only child. No immediate family.” I erased suspicions of his family being behind the threats.

  “Then we’ll hold on to the possibility of someone from prison being responsible until this is over.”

  The sheriff’s impassive stare left me questioning if he and Officer Hughes shared the same mindset.

  “My job is to make sure the laws are obeyed and to protect others from harm,” the sheriff said. “If your rights have been violated, and it appears so, then I’m out to make an arrest.”

  Dare I fight the opposition, or should I move to another town?

  Would my past haunt me forever?

  10

  No one could ever appreciate the scent of freedom unless they’d been locked up. Wednesday morning, I pedaled into Valleysburg, drinking in the morning freshness. The five miles of nature-infused earth nurtured me, and optimism blossomed like the Indian paintbrush and bluebonnets blanketing the spring fields.

  My first stop was Pastor Emory’s office. I wanted to thank him for his generosity, but his secretary reported he and his family were still down with the flu. I wrote him a note and included my cell phone number with a request for him to call when he felt better. I also scheduled my first counseling session for the following Monday. I’d dread the session every day until it happened.