Coldness settled in his chest and spread through his body. This was exactly the scene he’d dreaded from the minute he knew he was coming back to Loomis.
Of course, it had to happen in front of dozens of witnesses.
Only years of practice at keeping his emotions hidden prevented him from bolting out the door. His indifference might be a veneer, but time and pain had made it thick. He didn’t move so much as a muscle.
Coral Travis hadn’t changed much in the intervening years. She was still a beautiful woman. Her hair, a lighter shade of blond now, was styled loose about her shoulders. Dressed in a white ensemble, she clung to the arm of a tall handsome blond man in a tailored gray suit. They made a striking couple. Behind them stood five more men in business attire.
Staring at Coral, Patrick saw the shock in her eyes quickly change to fury, then a hard look of calculation develop in their depths. Her gaze shifted to Shelby without softening.
He glanced around the café with its rich dark paneling. High-backed booths edged the room and a dozen tables covered with snowy white cloths filled the rest of the space. Every table was occupied. The hum of conversations stilled. People began staring and whispering to each other.
He recognized some of the faces, all older, all judgmental.
Don’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you care.
Deliberately raising his voice, he focused on Shelby. “It’s been a pleasure seeing you again, Miss Mason. Let’s get together and talk about old times. Remember the football championship?” Bitterness burned like acid on his tongue as he glared at Coral. “More than one game was played that night.” He nodded to Shelby. “I’ll be in town a week or two unless the sheriff runs me out sooner. Is Bradford Reed still sheriff around here?”
“Yes, he is.” Shelby’s eyes darted to Coral and back to him. He read her confusion and discomfort. Suddenly, he wished he hadn’t used her to take a jab at Coral.
“Things haven’t changed much here, have they?” he stated bitterly and loud enough to be overheard by everyone.
Before she could answer, Patrick walked out the door and let it slam shut behind him.
Shelby stood aside as Coral, pausing only to shoot a look of malice at Shelby, left the building followed by her fiancé, Wendell Bixby, and the other members of Wendell’s election committee. As the door closed behind them, Shelby stepped to the window and watched them quickly cross the street.
Patrick strolled to his bike, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world.
Shelby wasn’t exactly sure what had just happened. Somehow, she’d found herself in the cross fire between Patrick and Coral. Talk about uncomfortable.
But then, nothing between Shelby and Coral had been comfortable since the night of Coral’s alleged rape. Shelby didn’t know the whole story, but she knew enough to wonder if Coral had lied. Only—why would she?
Shelby watched Patrick settle astride his motorcycle and pull it upright. She wanted to believe he had been innocent of the charges Coral leveled against him, but only the two of them knew for certain what happened that night.
Studying Patrick, Shelby decided that he had changed a good deal since college. His hair was still a thick sable brown, but he wore it shorter now and there was a touch of gray at his temples. Fine crow’s-feet fanned out from the corners of his dark-as-molasses eyes giving him a world-weary look.
Tilting her head slightly, she decided it was more of a world-wary look.
Drawing a pair of aviator sunglasses from his breast pocket, he slipped them on. Shelby’s heart skipped a beat—or two. His magnetic, bad-boy aura hadn’t dimmed a bit over the years. If anything, he was more attractive than ever.
Dressed in a leather jacket, tight faded jeans and black boots, he looked like he had ridden straight off a movie set. He looked like trouble waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting town.
She jumped a fraction when the bike roared to life. After revving the engine, he backed out of the parking space and rode away. Only then did she come out of her mental fog.
“On the contrary, Mr. Rivers,” she muttered softly. “Things have changed a great deal in Loomis in the past few months, and none of it for the better.”
“Who is he, and how do you know a hunk like that?” Wendy demanded at her elbow, her voice brimming with awe.
Taking in the number of people staring at them, Shelby steered Wendy to the nearest booth where Jocelyn was already waiting for them and watching the exchange with interest.
Jocelyn’s recent wedding to FBI agent Sam Pierce had been a bright spot in the otherwise frightening events of the year. Dressed in a beige suit jacket with dark-brown piping, Jocelyn radiated professional confidence and a quiet happiness Shelby envied.
Wendy scooted into the booth beside her. Wearing a purple, flowing print skirt and lacy camisole top under a crocheted multicolored shrug, Wendy radiated…Wendy.
“Yes, Shelby,” Jocelyn added with a curious smile. “Do tell us who that was.”
Shelby slid across the red vinyl bench opposite Jocelyn and Wendy and glanced at her cousin. “You don’t remember Patrick Rivers?”
Wendy tipped her head. “Should I?”
“You were two years behind me in school, so maybe you didn’t know about him.”
A slight frown marred Jocelyn’s forehead. “I don’t remember him, either.”
“You had already moved away,” Shelby explained. “He was a junior when I was a freshman at Loomis College. He was the football captain and quarterback. NFL scouts were lining up around the block to watch him.”
Wendy’s eyes widened with sudden shock. “He’s the guy that raped Coral Travis.”
Casting Wendy a quelling glance, Shelby leaned forward and spoke quietly. “The charges were dismissed due to lack of evidence.”
“Which means he got away with it,” Wendy declared. “No wonder she looked like she’d seen a ghost. Do you think there’s a connection between Leah’s disappearance, the murders and his sudden return?”
Was there?
Shaking her head, Shelby lifted a laminated menu from the metal holder at the end of the table. “I don’t see how. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence that he’s here now. His stepfather died a few weeks ago.”
Wendy looked unconvinced. “He could be back to get his revenge. Did y’all see the cold way he looked at Coral? First a murderer loose in town and now a rapist. I’m telling you, Shelby Sue, I have no idea what this town is coming to. I feel like locking myself in the house and swallowing the key.”
Reaching across the table, Shelby covered Wendy’s hand with her own. “Then who would help me run the library, Wendy Jean?”
“No one. I’d lock you in the house with me.”
Jocelyn slipped her arm around Wendy’s shoulders. “We should all be careful, but we can’t hide from life. Now more than ever, the people of this town—particularly the children—need normalcy.”
“And caution…and mace,” Wendy declared. “I’m getting y’all cans of pepper spray the minute we leave here.”
Shelby smiled. “You know what a klutz I am. I’d end up spraying myself in the face.”
“Don’t make light of this. I’ve lost one friend already. I don’t want to lose you, too. Maybe if Leah had had something to defend herself with…” Wendy’s voice trailed off.
“I think about that, too,” Jocelyn added quietly.
In the sudden stillness, Shelby knew they were all thinking the same thing. Three people they knew had been murdered. Leah was most likely dead, her body disposed of somewhere in the trackless miles of swamp.
A killer was still on the loose in their town. How soon would he or she kill again? Who would be the next victim?
TWO
The house wasn’t much to look at.
Patrick turned off his bike and sat staring at the sky-blue cottage situated near the outskirts of Loomis. His childhood home, such as it was, hadn’t seen a new coat of paint in years. Perhaps not since he’d left a decade ago.<
br />
The steamy Louisiana humidity wasn’t kind to bare wood. He’d be lucky if there wasn’t rot in the steps leading up to the narrow front porch.
He put down the kickstand and swung his leg over the seat. Standing upright, he stretched a few residual kinks out of his back. Los Angeles was a long, long way from Loomis.
He’d spent last night at the hotel because his stepfather’s attorney’s office had been closed when Patrick rolled into town. In a way, the delay had been good. He certainly hadn’t wanted to revisit his personal ghosts at night. It was hard enough in the light of day.
The only bright spot in the whole trip had been seeing Shelby Mason again. It surprised him how attractive he found her. He’d made a habit of avoiding serious involvements with women, and with good reason.
What would it be like to be an ordinary man in Loomis? To speak to a pretty woman without worrying about the stares and whispers?
Forget it. It’s not going to happen. If I needed proof, I got it this morning.
He was here to settle his stepfather’s estate, nothing more. He couldn’t change the past. All he could hope for was to profit from the present.
Avoiding the inevitable for a few minutes longer, he walked around the side of the house.
His boots crunched on the crushed oyster shell path that led past the detached garage to the backyard. He noticed the garage was in better shape than the house. The outside of the building was covered with new vinyl siding.
His stepdad had always enjoyed working in his shop, tinkering on his car or his lawnmower. A love of engines was about the only thing the two of them had in common.
Walking to the rear of the house, Patrick stopped at the sight that met him. The grass was knee-high. Honeysuckle vines and kudzu ran rampant over the chain link fence at the back of the property. An air of neglect hung over everything.
Looking at the single live oak tree in the center of the yard, he noticed a piece of weathered rope dangling from a branch. It was all that was left of the tire swing he’d used to hone his throwing arm.
He closed his eyes and breathed in. The coy, sweet fragrance of the flowering honeysuckle took him back to his childhood.
He could almost hear his mother’s voice calling him in to supper from a game of hide-and-seek with the neighborhood kids. How many summer evenings had he spent catching fireflies in this yard? How many nights had he camped out here under a makeshift tent with his best buddy, Wyatt? How many times had Wyatt’s family taken him along on their fishing trips to their cabin in the woods?
Sadness crept over Patrick. How could so much heartache and pain reside in the same place where he had known such happiness as a kid?
“I’m surprised you came back.”
Patrick’s eyes flew open at the sound of a man’s voice. Turning around, he found himself staring at his friend, Wyatt, grown up now and watching with dark eyes narrowed in displeasure from the back porch of the house next door.
Patrick swallowed the bitterness rising to the back of his throat. “Hello, Wyatt. It’s nice to see you, too.”
Wyatt Tibbs dropped his gaze. His lips pressed into a thin line, then he said, “Sorry about your stepdad.”
“Thanks.” Patrick motioned toward the well-kept white bungalow with blue shutters where Wyatt stood. “How are your folks?”
Making small talk was easier than tackling the big issue that lay between the two men. At least it was something.
“They moved to Arizona a few years back. I own the place now. Are you staying long?” Wyatt’s tone made it plain that Patrick wasn’t welcome.
Resentment simmered as Patrick stared at his former friend. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll move back here for good,” he suggested with thick sarcasm.
A woman’s voice called out from inside Wyatt’s house. “Honey, breakfast is ready.”
Wyatt glanced from Patrick to his own door and then back. “Staying isn’t a good idea.”
“I didn’t do it, you know.” Patrick had no idea why he felt compelled to defend himself again after ten years. No one had believed him then. Nothing had changed.
Wyatt stared at him for a long moment. “Like I said, staying isn’t a good idea.” He walked into his house, letting the screen door slam behind him.
Annoyed with himself for caring so much, Patrick blew out a breath between pursed lips and headed back to the front of the house. He needed to get rid of this part of his life. For good.
Climbing the steps, he pulled out the key his stepfather’s attorney had given him a short time ago and unlocked the front door.
The clinking of silverware against china and the murmur of voices surrounded Shelby as she waited on everyone to finish their French donuts. After licking a dusting of powdered sugar from her lips, she took a sip of her second cup of coffee.
Across the table, Wendy began folding and unfolding her napkin. “I heard they might cancel the Mother of the Year Pageant.”
Jocelyn nodded. “Ava Renault mentioned that the planning committee has seriously been considering it.”
Wendy crossed her arms and rubbed her hands up and down her sleeves. “After Jillian Morrison got a note telling her to withdraw or end up dead and then poor Nancy Bailey had bleach thrown in her face—well, it’s a wonder anyone is willing to be a contestant. I certainly don’t want to be nominated.”
“What do you think about canceling it?” Shelby asked Jocelyn.
“On one hand, I see it as an act of respect for Angelina and Dylan’s deaths and Leah’s disappearance, but on the other hand, it means the town is giving in to fear. I hope they don’t cancel it.”
Looking from Shelby to Jocelyn, Wendy said, “I know y’all were close friends with Leah in high school so you know her better than almost anyone. Do you think there’s any truth to the rumor that Dylan Renault is Sarah’s father?”
Shelby bit her lip. It wasn’t possible, was it? Yet Dylan Renault’s dying words had been, “Sarah’s father.” Words whispered in the ear of FBI agent Sam Pierce, Jocelyn’s husband.
No one was sure what Dylan meant by them but there was plenty of speculation.
Sensing Shelby’s hesitation, Wendy arched her eyebrows. “You know something you aren’t telling us.”
Shaking her head in denial, Shelby said, “I only know that Leah worked as Dylan’s secretary before she married Earl and that Dylan made her uncomfortable with his attention. She stopped working for him pretty abruptly after that company Christmas party four years ago.”
Jocelyn tipped her head slightly as she stared at Shelby. “Did something happen at that party?”
A shiver ran over Shelby’s skin. She didn’t like thinking about that night. She had attended at Leah’s insistence but had become so ill she later fainted. The whole night was nothing but a weird blur.
Afterward, Shelby began having nightmares—the same dream over and over again. A disembodied face looking down at her, laughing at her.
Pushing aside thoughts of her haunting dream, Shelby nodded. “Something happened that upset Leah a great deal, but she never talked about it.”
Jocelyn pushed aside her plate and folded her hands on the table. “Have you told Sam about this?”
“No.”
“I think you should. The FBI has been searching for a connection between Leah’s disappearance and Dylan’s murder.”
“I wish I could remember more. I got sick at the party and Leah did, too. I have this dream about that night, but I’m not sure what it means.”
“I might be able to help,” Jocelyn suggested.
Embarrassed, Shelby shook her head. “It’s just a dream.”
Wendy’s eyes narrowed as she leaned forward. “Who else was there? Maybe they know something.”
“A lot of people were there, but most of them were friends of Dylan’s. Not exactly my social circle.”
Shelby glanced toward the door. A long-forgotten face swam into focus. “Wendell Bixby was there. He worked for Renault Corporation back then. I could t
alk to him and see if he remembers anything odd about Dylan or Leah’s behavior.”
“Such idle gossip benefits no one, Miss Mason.” The hard, cultured voice of Charla Renault caught Shelby unaware. She hadn’t heard Charla’s electric wheelchair coming up behind her.
The scent of White Shoulders perfume mingled with the coffee and cinnamon in the air. Shelby turned in her seat to face the mother of the most recent murder victim in Loomis.
Charla’s dark eyes glittered with cold anger. “My son was never interested in someone as common as Leah Farley.”
Shelby wished she hadn’t been caught in the act of talking about the woman’s son. She wanted to defend Leah, but Charla had a way of making Shelby, and most of Loomis, feel small and insignificant. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Renault.”
The man who worked as Charla’s driver and servant rose from the booth behind Shelby. He settled his hat on his thick gray hair and ran a hand down the front of his impeccably pressed black chauffeur’s jacket. Apparently, he had been waiting for Charla to finish her breakfast, because he nodded to her and asked, “Shall I bring the car around, madame?”
“Yes.” She dismissed him with a wave. Although Charla Renault maintained a regal air, neither wealth nor social position had spared the matriarch of the Renault family her share of pain. Confined to a wheelchair after the car accident that claimed her husband’s life, Charla still ruled the family with an iron fist in a kid glove.
Dressed today in a pink twinset with a simple choker of small pink pearls at her throat, Charla looked the epitome of Southern class, but the death of her only son had been a blow from which many wondered if she would ever recover. Now she had only her daughter, Ava, to carry on the family traditions and businesses.
The word that Ava had recently become engaged to Max Pershing, son of Charla’s archrival and longtime social enemy, Lenore Pershing, was a prime bit of news making the rounds. The two families had been feuding for ages. Shelby could only pray that Max and Ava’s love would put an end to their family’s long-standing grudge once and for all.
A Cloud of Suspicion Page 2