A Cloud of Suspicion

by Patricia Davids

  He nodded to the two women but found his gaze drawn to Shelby’s face, to her eyes and the kindness he sensed more than saw in them. “Thanks for coming. I appreciate this.”

  She smiled softly. “No problem. I love books, in case you couldn’t tell that by my job.”

  “But we can’t stay long,” Wendy added quickly. “My husband is waiting for us. He knows I came here with my cousin.”

  A wry smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve been reading through some of the old newspapers. Loomis isn’t as safe as it looks. Even before I arrived.”

  “Where are the books?” Shelby asked.

  Patrick turned and walked down the hallway, leaving the women to come in or not. At the door to his mother’s sewing room, he opened it and stepped back. “I went through a few of the boxes, but I honestly have no idea if what I’m looking at is just old or old and valuable.”

  Shelby’s eyes widened at the stacks of packing crates and cardboard containers filling the room. “These are all full of books?”

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “The first few had some clothes, but the rest have been books.”

  “Wow. I thought you were kidding about there being a hundred.” She stepped into the room and Wendy slipped in with her, glaring at Patrick.

  Shelby sank to the floor and opened the lid of the first box. “Oh, my.”

  “What?” Wendy demanded, peering closer.

  Lifting out a slim, dark-red leather volume, Shelby passed it to Wendy, who immediately sank to the floor. “The Memoirs of Sadie Winslow. I don’t believe it!”

  “Who is Sadie Winslow?” With his hands stuffed in the front pockets of his jeans, Patrick leaned nonchalantly against the doorjamb.

  “First edition?” Shelby asked.

  Wendy carefully opened the binding. “Yes, 1876. Oh, my. It’s signed,” she added with a squeal.

  A huge smile wreathed Shelby’s face as she glanced up at Patrick. “Sadie Winslow was a freed slave in New Orleans. Her memoirs helped pinpoint injustices in the property laws at the time.”

  “So it’s valuable?”

  “This copy has a few condition flaws, but it’s still worth several hundred dollars. If this is any indication of what your mother collected, she had fine taste.”

  “She loved books and history.”

  Shelby pulled the next novel from the box and ran her hand gently over the cover. “I know the feeling. There’s just something about opening one. I guess it’s the mystery. What will the author reveal? Where in the world will the words take me? What secrets, what puzzles will be answered?”

  The reverence in her tone reminded him so strongly of his mother that a lump pushed its way up in his throat.

  “What are these?” Wendy had opened another box. She held up a package covered with Christmas wrapping paper.

  She passed it to Shelby, who read the note attached and then held it up to Patrick. “It’s for you.”

  Sudden tears pricked the back of his eyes and he blinked them back. His mother had passed away a few weeks before Christmas his junior year in high school.

  He vividly remembered that first holiday without her. There hadn’t been a tree or gifts. His stepfather had retreated into his room that day and hadn’t come out until the next morning.

  Patrick took the package from Shelby’s hand and walked down the hall to the kitchen, where he stood staring at the last gift his mother had given him. Feeling the pain of her loss all over again.

  Carefully, he undid the brittle wrapping paper and laid it aside. It was copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, an early edition, with beautiful color plates. She had tucked a note inside.

  Merry Christmas, Darling. May your life be filled with many adventures. Love forever, Mom.

  His life had been filled with adventures all right, but not the kind he would have wanted his mother to know about.

  “I found this one for someone named Wyatt.” Shelby stood in the doorway holding out another gift-wrapped book. Dust smudged her cheek.

  Repressing the urge to reach out and brush the dirt from her face, he focused on the gift instead. “That would be Wyatt Tibbs.”

  “You two were friends in college, weren’t you?”

  “Since before grade school.”

  “I’m sure he’d like to have this.”

  Patrick took the book from her hand. “Our friendship didn’t exactly thrive after…you know.”

  She rubbed her palms on her pant legs. “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged. “It is what it is.”

  “Where did you go—after you left here?”

  “Around.”

  “That doesn’t tell me much. Perhaps I should have asked where you ended up?”

  “Los Angeles.”

  “L.A., that sounds exciting.”

  He tipped his head to one side. “Does it?”

  “To someone who never made it out of Loomis, yes. What do you do there?”

  “I fix motorcycles.”

  It was her turn to look skeptical. “Really?”

  “Being a grease monkey isn’t a good enough profession?” He kept his voice level with difficulty.

  “Of course it is. Any job is worthwhile if you love it.”

  He could have let it drop there but found himself wanting to share more about himself. Should he risk it?

  “I started out fixing bikes for a guy named Carl Wolf. He runs a custom bike shop in L.A. He always claimed he saw potential in me. Before long he had me in night school learning about design and fabrication.”

  “That makes sense. I remember seeing some of the sketches you used to draw.”

  He chuckled. “I’m afraid none of them would have stood up to a road test. It’s odd you should mention those. You must have a great memory.”

  Shrugging, she asked, “Did you design the bike outside?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s really cool. Very powerful looking. Very feline.”

  “You have a good eye.”

  She looked down, embarrassed by his praise.

  “Why didn’t you leave Loomis?” he asked, wondering how someone as sweet as Shelby had remained that way in the oppressive town.

  She shrugged. “I have roots that hold me here.”

  “Roots hold down trees, not people. People are free to move on.”

  “Not everyone wants to move on.”

  “No, not everyone—but for some, it’s the only choice.” He didn’t normally talk about himself. What was it about this woman that made him open up?

  A shriek rent the air, followed quickly by Wendy’s excited voice. “Shelby! Y’all got to see this!”

  Turning, Shelby hurried back to her cousin. Although he should have been relieved that their private conversation was at an end, he wasn’t.

  Troubled by the conflicting emotions Shelby evoked in him, he followed more slowly. He stopped at the door to the room where Wendy sat looking into a large box. Her eyes were as round as saucers.

  “What is it?” Shelby demanded, dropping down beside her.

  “Refléxions sur la Campagne du Général André Jackson by Bernard Marigny…first edition…wonderful condition. Oh, what a find. Where on earth did your mother get this?”

  “It’s hard to say. She loved looking for books at estate sales. She went prowling through old bookstores in New Orleans every chance she got. Who is Bernard Marigny?”

  “Only the founder of our fair city and a famous Renault ancestor,” Wendy supplied.

  Shelby slowly lifted the book out of the box. “I think this is exactly the kind of thing Mrs. Renault would like.”

  “What do you mean?” Patrick asked.

  “Mrs. Renault is considering making a large donation to the library in her son’s name,” Shelby explained, “if we can show her we can develop a suitable memorial.”

  “Like a special collection of research books on Louisiana history?” Wendy’s eyes sparkled. “I think she just might go for that.”

  “The
Dylan Renault Research Center for Loomis History and Genealogy.” Excitement shimmered in Shelby’s voice. “We could use that big storeroom on the east end of the second story. It would be perfect—a dedicated space with limited access.”

  “It’s close to the elevators, and it wouldn’t take much to make it wheelchair accessible,” Wendy added.

  “How much is the book worth?” Patrick asked.

  Shelby and Wendy both looked up at him. “Historically, it’s an important work,” Shelby said.

  “So, how much? A couple hundred bucks?”

  “At least.”

  “Great. Who would buy it?”

  “There are rare-book dealers in New Orleans, but if Mrs. Renault gives our library the money, we would be able to offer you fair market value for it.”

  “How soon?”

  “I’m not sure. A few weeks or a month.”

  He shook his head. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m not hanging around that long.”

  Shelby raised one eyebrow. “I guess donating the copy to us would be out of the question?”

  For a second, he was tempted to do just that. He wanted to see those gold-green eyes of hers alight with happiness, but he quickly discarded the notion. He needed every dollar he could raise. “I don’t think so. Is there anything else of value in these boxes?”

  Rising, Shelby dusted off her hands. “It will take several more hours to go through all of these, but I’m afraid we don’t have time to do it today.”

  Wendy jumped to her feet as if afraid of being left alone with him. “Yes, we should get going.”

  “I can come by again tomorrow evening,” Shelby stated firmly, meeting his gaze without flinching. “If that’s all right with you?”

  Was she trying to prove she wasn’t afraid of him, or was she genuinely interested in helping him?

  “I’ll be here.” The rise in his spirits at the thought of seeing her again surprised him. He stepped aside to let the women leave.

  Don’t go getting attached to her. It’ll only bring trouble.

  Following them to the front door, he leaned one shoulder against the square porch column as he watched them descend the steps. He couldn’t help but notice the sway of Shelby’s long hair down her back.

  Sunlight caught the different colors of red, revealing a multitude of highlights. As she turned to face him once more, the breeze blew a strand across her face. She reached up and tucked it behind her ear.

  How would her hair look blowing out behind her as she rode his bike? He imagined the way the ends would whip and curl as if they had a life of their own. His fingers itched to reach out and touch it.

  Just beyond her, he caught sight of Wyatt and his wife in the front yard. Camera in hand, Mrs. Tibbs was busy snapping photos of the boys each holding up a large catfish. Wyatt spoke in her ear and then said something to the boys. The kids carried their prizes around the side of the house.

  Patrick straightened and shoved his hands deep in his front pockets. Shelby followed his gaze. She lifted her hand in a brief wave, and Wyatt’s wife waved back.

  Looking at Patrick, Shelby said, “You should give him the present your mother left for him.”

  “Why?” A book wouldn’t heal what lay between them.

  “Because God moves in mysterious ways,” Shelby said softly.

  Her comment pulled his attention back to her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That you were meant to find your mother’s gifts today. It’s up to you what you do with them. I’ll be back after the library closes tomorrow.”

  He motioned with his chin toward Wendy, waiting beside their car. “Don’t forget to bring your watchdog.”

  Shelby grinned and giggled. The sudden sweet sound made his breath catch in his throat.

  She didn’t seem to notice the effect she had on him. “I doubt I’ll be able to get out the door without her and her trusty can of mace.”

  “From what I’ve read in the old newspapers here, she has the right idea.”

  The laughter left her eyes to be replaced by worry. “Perhaps she does.”

  He was sorry he had reminded her of her fright and of the loss of her friend. “Take care.”

  Smiling slightly, she nodded. “I will.”

  As she and Wendy drove away, Patrick watched Wyatt and his wife continuing their yard work.

  It doesn’t matter what Wyatt or anyone else thinks of me. I’m not staying in Loomis. I’ve got a life away from this hole.

  But it did matter what Shelby thought of him. She would ask about the gift when she came back.

  Turning abruptly, he reentered the house. The red-and-green striped package still sat on the kitchen counter. He walked over and picked it up. What book had his mother chosen for his best friend all those years ago? His stepfather had obviously packed it away. Why hadn’t he given it to Wyatt?

  “Because God wants me to do it, according to Miss Shelby.” Patrick tried to muster the appropriate sarcasm but didn’t quite manage it. She had spoken with such conviction.

  Picking up the package, he hefted the weight of it in his hand. It would only take a second to open it, to rip away the colorful paper now brittle with age. Maybe it was another valuable book. Something he could sell and get one step closer to his dream.

  His mother’s face floated before his mind’s eye. This was her gift to Wyatt. He had no right to it. Before he could change his mind, he walked out the door and down the steps. Wyatt was hosing the mud from his truck tires. When he caught sight of Patrick, he turned off the nozzle.

  At the fence, Patrick waited as Wyatt walked slowly toward him. He held out the package.

  Wyatt looked at it but didn’t take it. “What’s this?”

  “I found it when I was going through some stuff. The card says it’s for you.”

  “Me?”

  “From my mom. It looks like she bought you something before she died.”

  Slowly, Wyatt reached out and took the package. A guarded look settled over his face. “Your mom was always good to me.”

  “Your folks were always good to me.”

  An awkward silence stretched on, but neither man moved. The boy came running out of the house but slowed when he saw his father with a stranger. The tyke was the spitting image of his father with dark hair and dark eyes.

  Patrick smiled at him. “Did you catch that big catfish all by yourself?”

  The boy’s eyes widened. “Yeah, and I put my own worms on, too.”

  Patrick chuckled at his enthusiasm. “I’ll bet you caught him from the end of the dock at your dad’s cabin out in the bayou. Right?”

  He bobbed his head. “Yeah! How’d you know?”

  “I caught a few from that spot myself.”

  “Mark, go on back in the house.” Wyatt tipped his head in that direction.

  “Okay, Dad. Mom says you’d better come skin them catfish before they start stinkin’.”

  “I’ll be right in.”

  As the boy ran back the way he’d come, Patrick struggled with a touch of envy. At least Wyatt’s life had turned out well.

  Patrick motioned to the book in his friend’s hands. “I just thought you should have it.”

  Turning away, Patrick walked to back to the porch. When he glanced back, Wyatt was still standing with the unopened gift in his hands.

  SIX

  Early on Friday afternoon, Shelby sat eating her lunch on a stone bench situated beneath the spreading branches of a dogwood. The tree, one of eight that bordered the side of the library, was heavy with blooms and the air was sweet with their fragrance. Overhead, the sky shone crystalline-blue without a cloud in sight. For a change, the air was free of the pressing humidity.

  As she munched her tuna salad sandwich, Shelby mentally tried to prepare her presentation to the library board and Mrs. Renault but instead found her thoughts occupied by Patrick.

  When she and Wendy had arrived at his house after work the previous day, he’d been waiting for them. Seated in a cha
ir with his boots propped up on the porch railing, he looked like a man without a care in the world, but it was plain that he’d been busy. The yard had been freshly mown and there were a half dozen bags of trash out by the curb.

  He’d let them into the house and then took off on his bike—like it didn’t matter that she was there.

  Shelby had wanted to share her discoveries with him. Wanted to see his eyes light up and listen to stories about his life in L.A. Instead, she and Wendy had spent the three hours discovering at least another dozen books of value among his mother’s collection. Patrick never returned while they were there.

  It shouldn’t bother her—but it did.

  Stuffing the uneaten portion of her sandwich back in the brown paper bag at her side, she scolded herself for spending so much time and energy thinking about the man, about his motives, about his feelings.

  Suddenly, as if conjured by her thoughts, he roared into the parking lot on his bike.

  She started to lift her hand to wave but stopped herself. He didn’t look in her direction. Instead, he marched with purposeful strides toward the town hall.

  Disappointment settled over her.

  Don’t be a silly goose. Why would he be coming to see me? He didn’t even bother to stick around when Wendy and I were at his house.

  Shelby picked up her can of diet soda and took a long swig. As much as she prided herself on being logical, that didn’t seem to be the case where Patrick Rivers was concerned.

  A logical woman would avoid him like the plague. Shelby didn’t understand the attraction that drew her to him. It might have started as a schoolgirl crush years ago, but this was something different. It was thrilling and frightening at the same time.

  There was certainly plenty of gossip going around town about the man. To her shame, she listened, hoping to learn more about him. Most of what she heard was speculation about his alleged past crime.

  The uncertainty of it gnawed at Shelby. Had he done it? Only one woman knew for certain.

  Shelby didn’t want him to be guilty.

  Abruptly, Shelby set down the can she was holding. Coral Travis worked in the town hall. Shelby stared at the second-story corner window of the building she knew was Coral’s office.