“It’s Mavis Bixby.”
“Still? I thought if you found anything untoward, you were going to turn it over to Sheriff Roberts.”
Kate grimaced. “I did . . . I did.”
“And?”
Kate paused. How much of what the sheriff told her could she share with Livvy?
“Let’s just say that I’m concerned enough not to let the matter drop, even with his assurances.”
Livvy frowned but nodded, the loose tendrils from her haphazard chignon bobbing around her face. “If you’re worried about Mavis, so am I. How can I help?” She came around the end of the desk toward Kate. “What are you looking for?”
“I have a name of someone that I need to research. And part of an address.”
“Well, let’s go Google them and see what we can find.” Livvy motioned toward one of the computer stations.
At the computer, Kate settled into the chair, with Livvy peering over her shoulder. She typed in the Web address for the search engine and then stared at the blinking cursor for a long moment. She remembered the first name on the envelope. Kevin. And the address had been in Chicago. What had the last name been? She closed her eyes and tried to visualize the writing. Blanton? Barton?
“Kate? Are you okay?” Livvy asked.
“Just trying to remember something.” She could see the letter in her hands, feel the dusty paper beneath her fingers.
Kevin Baxter. That was it. She breathed a sigh of relief and typed in the name and the town. “Cross your fingers,” she whispered to Kate, and then she hit the return key.
Information popped up on the screen instantly. “Almost seven hundred thousand hits.” Livvy sighed. “This could take awhile. What exactly are you looking for?”
“I’ll know it when I see it,” Kate replied. “Trust me.”
She didn’t want to type in “Witness Protection Program,” not with Livvy standing there, so she began to work her way down the list of Internet references to Kevin Baxter that also contained a mention of Chicago.
“A sports writer,” she murmured. “Some poor police officer who was hit by a drunk driver.” She scrolled farther down the list. “A prosecutor somewhere, but not Chicago.” Kate sighed. Page after page of hits on the name, but nothing connecting anyone to Mavis Bixby.
“Oops,” Livvy said, looking over her shoulder. “I’ve got another patron at the reference desk. I’ll check back with you in a few minutes.”
“Sure.”
Livvy walked away. Once she was in conversation with the patron, Kate furtively erased Kevin Baxter’s name from the search engine and typed in “Witness Protection Program.” This time her luck proved much better. It took only a few moments to find out some helpful—and surprising—information. As Sheriff Roberts had told her, the only people who’d ever been harmed after entering the program were the ones who broke its rules or dropped out. That fact worried her even more. Mavis must have known what she was risking when she left the program. Why would she jeopardize her life?
Kate’s gaze flew to Livvy again. The young man she was talking to wore a leather jacket, an entirely respectable one with no studs, zippers, or dangling tassels. But it reminded Kate of her conversations with LuAnne Matthews and Sam Gorman about the stranger who’d been asking around town about Mavis. Had she been discovered by whoever was threatening her?
Kate continued to scan another Web site with information on the program. She hadn’t realized it was run by the U.S. Marshals Service, not the FBI. So much for the information she’d picked up on television. Most people who entered the program were criminals, and a large percentage of them wound up in jail or prison for committing additional crimes. But that hadn’t been the case with Mavis, or Sheriff Roberts would have known her whereabouts. Kate also learned that the program encourages participants to keep their first name and pick a new last name that starts with the same first letter as their real name.
That piece of information sent Kate’s thoughts into a whirl. Bixby? Baxter? What if . . . She quickly typed Mavis Baxter into the search engine, but before she could hit return, she was interrupted.
“Any luck?” Livvy reappeared at Kate’s side.
Startled, Kate quickly clicked on the X in the upper right-hand corner of the screen to close the Internet browser.
“Not really, I’m afraid. I don’t see any hits that would relate to Mavis Bixby.” That much at least was true.
Livvy pulled out the chair from the computer terminal next to Kate and settled in. Kate tried not to squirm. Livvy had been her confidante almost from the first day she’d arrived in Copper Mill, and now Kate was hiding information from her. First, Paul, now this. Sheriff Roberts had said that law enforcement was never a cut-and-dried matter. Was that true of simply solving mysteries as well?
Kate wished she could get a little divine guidance on this matter. Over the years she’d watched her husband keep an amazing number of confidences in his role as a pastor. As a minister’s wife, she was no stranger to the practice herself. But that had been in a different setting. Almost a different life. Those confidences had been about people’s personal struggles, not about criminal activity. Now the stakes were higher, which made her choices all the more difficult.
“Do you want to try some different search engines? Maybe a Chicago phone directory?”
“Sure,” Kate agreed, but guilt weighed heavy on her heart.
Livvy turned toward the second computer terminal and began to type. “Looks like there’s only one hit for the white pages, and it’s in West Chicago, not Chicago proper.”
“That’s not it.”
Kate wished she could tell Livvy the whole truth, but she was dealing with a danger here far beyond her ordinary experience. If she told Livvy, would that somehow put Mavis in further jeopardy?
“Thanks for looking, though.”
“You’re giving up so easily?” Livvy’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “That’s not like you.”
“I probably remembered it wrong,” Kate replied.
“Who is this Kevin Baxter?” Livvy looked concerned. “What does he have to do with Mavis Bixby? And where did you get his name, anyway?”
“Just a clue I found,” Kate said, disturbed by how she was evading Livvy’s questions. She didn’t like the feeling one bit.
To ward off any more questions, Kate scooped up her purse from the floor next to her chair and stood up. “I guess I’d better run.”
Livvy stood up along with her. Her eyes darkened with concern. “Kate, is there something you’re not telling me?”
How could she answer that? Kate’s fingers itched to return to the keyboard and type “Mavis Baxter” and “Chicago” into the search engine, but she would have to wait and come back another time when Livvy wasn’t on duty. Kate hoped her distress at not being honest with her friend didn’t show on her face.
“Well, I’ll keep searching for Kevin Baxter in Chicago just in case you’re right,” Livvy said before Kate could do anything else. “I’ll let you know if I find anything.”
“Thanks, Livvy. I appreciate it.”
“See you Wednesday night for choir practice?”
“Sure.”
As Kate made her way downstairs and out the main door of the library, a sudden pang of loneliness hit her. She hoped all this fudging—she wouldn’t call it outright lying—would be worth it in the end. It would have to be. And it would be, but only if she could find Mavis Bixby—or Mavis Baxter—before the person she had testified against could harm her.
Chapter Seven
This time when Kate returned home, Paul was there and hard at work. She found him in her once-pristine kitchen, enveloped by the pungent smell of frying onions. Every available space was covered with pots, pans, out-of-season tomatoes, bulbs of garlic, cans of every kind of bean known to humankind, and several industrial-sized containers of tomato paste.
“Hi, honey,” she called as she stepped into the kitchen. “Did you find your mom’s recipe?”
; Paul was bent over a pot on the stove, blowing on a spoonful of chili. When he heard her voice, he dumped the spoon’s contents back into the pot and turned toward her. But instead of the welcoming smile he always gave her, his mouth fell in a straight, impassive line.
“Hello, Kate.” He set the spoon on the countertop next to the stove. “I’m glad you’re home.”
“Is everything okay?” Kate tossed her purse and car keys the short distance to the kitchen table. Anxiety squeezed her stomach. “Has something happened?”
Paul looked away to adjust the knob on the stove, turning up the heat under the pot. “Just been trying to recreate my mother’s recipe.” He wiped his hands on a dishtowel. “I hear you’ve had a busy afternoon.”
Somehow he knew she’d been in Mavis Bixby’s house. Trust the Copper Mill grapevine to make mincemeat of her attempts at subterfuge.
Kate’s stomach sank. “Yes, I have.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
He wasn’t happy with her, she could tell, but his carefully worded question indicated he also wasn’t rushing to judgment as some husbands might.
“Actually, I would like to talk to you about it. That would be great.” Kate sank into one of the straight-backed chairs next to the table. “Because I could really use your advice.”
“I already told you what I thought,” Paul said. “You’re making far too much of Mavis Bixby’s departure.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think I am.”
Paul frowned. “Kate, I know you’ve taken a lot of pleasure in helping folks since we’ve been in Copper Mill, but I’m afraid you might be losing some perspective here.”
Kate rarely got upset with Paul, and she couldn’t remember having ever been deeply angry with him. They’d had their ups and downs through the years, especially when the children had been young and they’d both been so exhausted. But at that moment, knowing what Sheriff Roberts had told her about Mavis Bixby and the Witness Protection Program, Kate felt a flush of real anger suffuse her face.
“You used to have faith in my judgment before—” She stopped herself.
“Before?” Paul arched an eyebrow. “Before I made you move to Copper Mill?”
She sighed. “I didn’t mean it like that. We both agreed to come here.”
They had been partners in the decision, though it had been a much more difficult one for her than it had been for him. Paul had grown up in this area. He still had ties, and he’d known what to expect from their new life. For Kate, as a born-and-bred San Antonio girl, it had been a true leap of faith.
Paul leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. “Yes, we both agreed to come here, but I know you weren’t thrilled about the decision. I just never thought you’d throw that up in my face.”
Her pulse skittered, betraying her frustration. “I never thought you’d doubt my judgment.” She, too, crossed her arms over her chest and wished she could stamp her foot like a four-year-old.
Paul uncrossed his arms, relenting. “I’m not disparaging your judgment across the board, Kate. Just questioning it in this case. We’ve never had secrets before. Why wouldn’t you tell me that you talked Gail Carson into taking you through Mrs.Bixby’s house?”
Kate felt guilty enough about her small subterfuge to look away. “I didn’t tell you because I knew what you’d say.”
“You knew I’d say that hiding something is the first sign of a guilty conscience.”
Her head snapped back up. “Or of someone who doesn’t want to be judged.”
The pot of chili let out a big belch as a heat bubble escaped to the surface, and Paul turned back to the stove. He grabbed the metal handle on the side of the pot with his bare fingers.
“Ouch!” He sprang back, waving his right hand in the air.
“Are you okay?” Kate leaped from her chair, their argument forgotten as she pulled Paul toward the sink and turned the faucet on full blast. Cold water poured forth. She shoved his hand under the water. “Hold it under here while I get some ice.”
Kate quickly retrieved a large plastic bowl and shoved her way past various containers and frozen dinners in the freezer to retrieve some ice. Not for the first time, she wished that the ancient refrigerator had an icemaker—much more efficient than the ancient plastic trays filled with tap water.
“Here.” She held the bowl of ice under the tap, and as it filled with water, Paul thrust his hand into the icy mixture.
“Argh!” He gritted his teeth. “That’s cold.”
Kate put one arm around him. With her free hand, she guided the bowl to the bottom of the sink and let it rest there. Then she flipped off the tap.
“It should feel better in a minute,” she soothed.
Paul winced. “How did you know to do that?”
“I’m a mom.”
“Thanks.” His slight apologetic smile melted away Kate’s previous anger.
Kate rested her head on his shoulder for a moment. “I didn’t mean to hide anything from you. I just didn’t want to be fussed at. And I did have another purpose for looking at Mavis Bixby’s house besides snooping.”
“You did?”
Kate stepped back. “I have an idea how the church might use the property, but—”
“Kate, I don’t mean to discourage you,” he interrupted, “but I don’t see where we’d ever get any more money for buying property. Not after we just rebuilt the sanctuary.”
“I know. But if I’m on the right track, God will provide the money somehow. And if I’m not . . . well, then, it will all just fizzle out.”
He gave her a wry smile. “Even your interest in Mavis Bixby?”
Paul’s injury had interrupted their conversation at a critical point, Kate realized. “Well, there’s been a new development there.”
“Other than your tour of her real estate?” The twinkle had returned to Paul’s eyes despite the injury to his hand and his concerns about her secretive visit to the Bixby house.
Kate smiled at the ridiculousness of having this conversation while her husband stood at the sink with his hand stuck in a bowl of ice water.
“Are you sure you feel like talking about this right now?” she asked.
Paul pulled his hand from the water and examined his fingers. He flexed them experimentally. “I think that did the trick.” He reached for the dishtowel and wiped his hand dry. “So what’s this new development?”
“I talked with Sheriff Roberts today.” Kate omitted the telephone call that had initially prompted her trip to Pine Ridge. She didn’t think the threat was serious, and it would only worry Paul. “As it turns out, he knew more about Mavis than he told me at first.”
Kate recounted her visit to the sheriff’s office and the confidential information he had related. She knew she could rely on Paul, of all people, to keep the news about Mavis to himself. As her story unfolded, Paul’s expression grew more serious.
“Kate, I think it’s time for you to do as the sheriff says and let the matter drop. You wouldn’t want to endanger Mavis Bixby by drawing too much attention to her departure, and if you keep asking questions about her, you’re bound to do that.”
“I think it’s too late for that,” Kate said, and she told him about the young man in the leather jacket who’d been asking around town about Mavis months before she and Paul had even arrived in Copper Mill. “Maybe if I found Mavis, I could convince her to go back into the Witness Protection Program.”
“Would they even take her back?”
“I have no idea . . . But, Paul, I have to try.” She knew her eyes were pleading with him to understand.
“The lost sheep, huh? You still think that applies to Mavis?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Even if she’s a sheep who doesn’t want to be found?”
“I keep thinking of an elderly woman somewhere out there scared and alone.” Kate waved her hand in the direction of the front door. “What if she’s regretting her decision? What if she needs help?”<
br />
What if it’s already too late? Kate’s unspoken question lay there between them, and they were both silent for a moment.
“I’ll make you a deal,” Paul said finally.
“What’s that?”
“No funny stuff. Discreet questions only. And at the first hint of trouble, you tell the sheriff and take yourself out of the matter entirely.”
Kate smiled, relieved. “Really?”
“Against my better judgment, but yes, really.”
“Great.” Kate leaned over and picked up the spoon from the countertop. “So, how’s that chili recipe coming along? Can I have a taste?”
“Maybe you can help me figure out what’s missing. It still doesn’t taste right.”
Kate bit her lip so the words that formed on her tongue wouldn’t escape. Cautiously she brought a spoonful of chili to her lips and blew on it. Then she tasted it gingerly.
“Hmm. Maybe more chili powder? Or some paprika?”
“I don’t think that’s it.”
Kate thought of the tin of cocoa powder she’d purchased at Gorman’s Mercantile. It had been her grandmother’s secret chili ingredient, but something told her Paul still wasn’t ready to hear her suggestion about its use.
Paul slid the pot off the burner, using an oven mitt this time to protect his fingers. “Well, I guess I’ll have to go back to the drawing board.”
Kate surveyed the kitchen. “You’ve got enough ingredients here to keep going until you get it just right.”
Paul’s gaze followed hers around the cluttered countertop. “Sorry about the mess. I’ll clean it up.”
“I’m happy to help. Want me to start washing some of these dishes?”
He pressed a kiss on her cheek. “That would be great. Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
Grateful for the blessed normalness of routine housework, Kate reached for the dish-washing soap, flipped on the faucet once again, and adjusted the stopper in the sink.
“So, what are you going to do with this batch of chili?” she asked.
Paul paused. “I hadn’t thought about that.”
“I’ll put it in some containers and freeze it. I’m sure someone could use it. In fact, I’ll take some to Clifton Beasley when I make him a pie.”
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