by J. C. Kenney
For all practical purposes, she was my client on all matters related to Thornwell’s books. Because of that relationship, and the fact that we were lifelong friends, I had a close-up view of her finances. Only a handful of people knew it, but my bestie was the wealthiest person in Rushing Creek.
The simple fact was Sloane didn’t need the money from selling the film rights to The Endless River or any of her father’s novels. Between her inheritance and the income from the books, she was set for life, provided she stayed smart with her investments.
It was no secret Thornwell didn’t want his stories adapted for the screen. Like the best-selling mystery author Sue Grafton, the man simply didn’t want Hollywood to get its hands on his work.
Sloane wasn’t Thornwell, though, so any decision on this topic was hers. I needed to make sure any decision was made with her best interests first.
“I think you should listen to what they have to say. Interest in your dad’s work will never be higher than now. That could put you in a strong negotiating position. Especially since you can always say thanks, but no thanks.”
She said she’d think about it and let me know what she decided in a few days. It was the response I wanted to hear. Sloane didn’t lack intelligence, by any means, but sometimes she had a childlike naïveté when dealing with people. She wanted to trust those with whom she crossed paths. It was an honorable approach to life.
It was an approach I was incapable of taking in my own life.
As a general principle, I didn’t trust people. My siblings liked to say it was because I watched too many Scooby-Doo episodes and read too many Boxcar Children books when I was young. They thought my exposure to all that mystery and suspicion at an impressionable age had destroyed any belief I might have in the basic goodness of people.
I let them believe it. It was easier than the truth, in which my distrust of humankind stemmed from the unkind and sometimes cruel treatment I had received from kids in town while I was growing up.
In elementary school, kids had liked to make fun of me because I got straight As and preferred books to video games. Things got worse in middle school. Too many times to count, I had my books knocked out of my hands by mean girls in retribution for refusing to let them copy my homework.
Then there were the taunting comments. The most hurtful words from the boys were reminders of how Rachel was so much prettier than me. The girls’ go-to insult was calling me Alexander, saying that since I looked like a boy, with my flat chest and short haircut, I must really be a boy.
Mom and Dad gave me as much support as they could, but they also insisted I learn to stand up for myself. They believed that if they came to my rescue too often, I’d become too reliant on them. Hindsight proved they were right, but at the time, the self-reliance they were teaching me often left me feeling alone, like an outsider, in the town where I’d spent my entire life.
On the other hand, they propped me up time and again by telling me I could go wherever I wanted and do whatever I wanted. With encouragement like that, it was no wonder I took off for the bright lights of a faraway city the first chance I got.
Not everybody was cruel, of course. I had Sloane and a few other friends, but over the years, the slights, the put-downs, and the heartless behavior from others wore me down. I’d become convinced there was no place for me in Rushing Creek. That distrust, that feeling of being marginalized was cemented when Georgie humiliated me on prom night.
By the time I graduated from high school, I was over Rushing Creek. Eighteen years of being different from the other kids had taken its toll, and I was ready to put my hometown in my rearview mirror.
In time, I got over the anger and resentment that, like undetected cancer cells, had grown within me. I realized couldn’t change the past any more than I could change those who had wronged me. What I could change was how I lived my own life. And I realized that I had to let go of the negativity of my youth.
It took a long time, over a decade, but eventually I came to terms with my past and found there was a lot I could learn from it. Among the most important lessons was the understanding that, while I still didn’t trust people in general, that was okay because that was part of my nature. Thanks to that understanding, I learned to value the individual relationships I built, and to not worry about what others, who didn’t know me, thought of Allie Cobb.
My less than trusting outlook on the human race was a key reason I was so thankful to have Sloane in my life. She brought the clean light of dawn to the twilight of my worldview. She found the joy in simple things I often missed. She also reminded me that growing up in an emotionally abusive home and retaining her belief in the goodness of people was a lesson in faith and perseverance. If you worked hard enough, eventually you would be rewarded.
For years, I tried to deny my prove-it-to-me nature. It wasn’t any fun being the killjoy in the room, after all. As I got older, I accepted it and put it to good use. Being a skeptic during my years in New York came in handy as too many people to count thought they could take advantage of a tiny, single woman from the Midwest.
Now that I was investigating the second murder in my hometown within a year, for better or worse, that personality trait was coming in handy again.
As we made our way through the rolling hills and farmlands of south-central Indiana, I took advantage of a break in the conversation to mull over Al’s revelations.
The information clouded the picture in a most unwelcome way. I had been ready to turn my full attention toward Lori, but now I wasn’t so sure. If only I could get my hands on the list of witnesses at Hoosiers the night Georgie died, I could ask those folks if they saw him that night with anyone who seemed out of place.
Despite Matt’s promise to see what he could do, I wasn’t counting on him to get the list to me. He couldn’t take that chance.
The list was a long shot, but it was still a puzzle piece I needed to fit somewhere, so as the soybean and corn fields gave way to the subdivisions on the outskirts of Indianapolis, I sent Jeanette a text. Since she wasn’t on the case, nobody would expect her to have access to the witness list, right?
After a few more turns that left me with a feeling we were in a maze, Sloane guided the car into a strip-mall parking lot. The center store, Wendy’s Bridal Boutique, was our destination. There was an open spot right in front of the store, but we motored right past it.
“Before you start whining, after that breakfast, we need to get some steps in.” She finally settled on a spot at the far end of the parking lot. The closest car was forty feet away.
“Won’t have to worry about anyone dinging your bumper.” I let out a low growl as I got out of the car.
“Shush. It’s a glorious day, and you know the exercise is good for you.” She stuck her tongue out at me, turned on her heel, and headed for the store.
I was short of breath by the time I caught up to her, a mere five feet from the boutique’s door.
“You need to get your heart rate up more often, Allie. Strolling around downtown Rushing Creek isn’t getting the job done. I need to put you on a training plan.” With an evil grin, she gave me a light tap with her elbow and opened the door.
“I do not need a training plan. You’ve got six inches on me. I have to work way harder than you to travel the same distance.” I elbowed her back. “Especially when you’re being mean and walking fast on purpose.”
We went back and forth with our mutual teasing until a tall African-American woman with a name tag that read Clarice emerged from the back of the shop. She spread her arms wide in welcome. “Ms. Winchester, it’s so good to see you again.”
We exchanged greetings after she gave Sloane a warm hug.
“Ready to see your dress?”
She led us past rows of breathtaking gowns in varying shades of white to a door labeled Salon Two in elegant script. “I think you’re going to love it. Shall we?”
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With her eyes as wide as teacup saucers and a smile that went from one ear to another, Sloane nodded. She radiated a level of happiness that brought a tear to my eye. Her eagerness, as Clarice opened the door, sent a shiver down my spine.
With floor-to-ceiling mirrors on three walls and a raised dais in the middle of the room, the salon seemed more spacious than my apartment. Sloane’s dress shimmered with the white light of a thousand stars as it hung on a mannequin in the center of the dais.
“Oh, my Lord,” she said in a breathless tone as she stepped up to the dress and ran her fingers along a silken sleeve. “It’s perfect.”
“Well, we do aim to please.” Clarice stepped behind the dress and unzipped it. “Allie, why don’t you help Ms. Winchester get into her gown. I’ll be right outside. When you’re ready, let me know, and then we’ll see if any adjustments need to be made.”
Sloane chattered away nonstop as I helped her into the gown. It was an over-the-shoulder style that accentuated both her incredible level of fitness and her tan. She was so busy going on about how thrilled she was with the fit of the gown, she didn’t seem to notice when I put her hair into a messy updo and went to get Clarice.
While the women discussed the gown’s fit, I settled into a comfortable wingback chair and checked my phone. There was a text from Jeanette with a list of names. I took my latest investigative tool from my purse. It was a pocket-sized notebook, not unlike the ones Matt used. There was no substitute for my full-sized case notebook, but this little one fit in my purse and hopefully would come in handy by allowing me to jot things down on the fly. As Sloane admired herself in the mirrors, I transferred the list into the notebook.
I was thankful the list wasn’t long, only fifteen names. Half of the names were familiar. Luke or Rachel could give me details on the ones I didn’t recognize. Five were guys who hung out with Georgie back in high school. I put stars next to them. If anybody knew about the dead man’s secrets, like gambling contacts, long-term cronies would be high on the list.
My musings about the list of names were interrupted when Sloane called my name.
“Allie.” Her hands were on her hips. “For the third time, what do you think of the fit?”
Busted. Unlike the bride-to-be, I wasn’t a fast runner. I was a fast thinker, though.
“Like you were born to wear that dress.” She smiled, so I added icing to the cake. “Luke won’t be able to take his eyes off of you.”
Her cheeks pinked at the mention of her fiancé. “You really think so? You don’t think it’s too tight or revealing, do you?”
“Can you breathe in it?”
She nodded.
“Can you move in it?”
She stepped off the dais with no problems and glided around the room twice. Granted, she was barefoot instead of wearing the four-inch heels she was planning on for the wedding, but her movements were fluid.
“One final question. Can you do the hokey pokey in it?”
Sloane opened her mouth in confusion for a moment, then let out a laugh.
“Let’s find out.” She raised her arms and turned in a little circle while weaving from side to side. When she completed the circle, she clapped three times, just like she’d be doing it on the dance floor in a few weeks.
When Clarice and I applauded, Sloane rewarded us with a curtsy.
As she stepped back onto the dais, I slipped the notebook into my purse. I’d vowed today was to be all about my bestie, after all.
“It’s time to celebrate,” I said when we were back in the car. “How about some frozen yogurt before we head home. My treat.”
Sloane had asked for two minor alterations, which Clarice had assured her would be no problem. We’d left the store in high spirits and with an appointment to pick up her gown the Tuesday before the wedding.
“Not until you make a final decision on your dress.” She turned right as we exited the parking lot, instead of left, which was the way to get home. “Which we are going to do right now.”
“Do we really have to?” I made every effort to sound like a whiny eleven-year-old.
I wasn’t a dress woman. It wasn’t that I disliked dresses. On the contrary, I totally appreciated them, especially when they were being worn by the right person.
I wasn’t the right person.
The last time I’d worn a dress was when Rachel and Matt got married. The most recent time before that was the disastrous prom night. Given the results of both of those events, I believed dresses weren’t meant to be part of Allie Cobb’s life.
Sloane had laughed in a good-natured way when I asked if I could wear a tuxedo as her maid of honor. She knew about my aversion to dresses, so she let me complain all the way to a nearby department store.
Keeping my grumblings to myself, I followed her through the store’s rotating doors, past the fragrance section, and across the fine jewelry aisles until she stopped in the dress section of the women’s department. She went straight to a salesperson and exchanged a few words before the woman stepped away.
Sloane put her arm around me. “Close your eyes. I picked out your dress.”
A minute later she told me to open them.
The saleswoman was standing before me, holding a lovely sage-green dress. It was about knee-length, rather than the full-length model I thought she wanted me to wear. The bigger surprise was I didn’t hate it.
The A-line cut was clean, which I liked. It had a single-shoulder neckline and a slightly angled, asymmetrically draped waistband that ended with a gathered skirt that was soft to the touch. Elegant, but simple.
“I think I like it.” My fingers had a barely perceptible tremble as I took the dress from the saleswoman and let her guide me toward a fitting room.
A few minutes later, my head still spinning from my positive reaction to the dress, I was staring at myself in a mirror, a beaming Sloane at my side.
“You look hot.” She fluffed my hair, which was an accomplishment since I kept it in a short bob. “The color of the dress brings out your eyes. We’ll get you a nice pair of heels and some sparkly earrings and you’ll be the most beautiful woman at the wedding. Next to me, of course.”
I took Sloane’s hand and did a little twirl. I did look pretty darn good.
The day couldn’t get any better. It was like a dream. If only dreams didn’t have to come to an end.
Chapter Seventeen
My incredible Saturday had left me as tired as Scarlett O’Hara after she escaped Atlanta the night it burned, so I responded to my alarm going off Sunday morning by hitting the snooze button and hiding under a pillow.
When the alarm went off again, I got up, but not without complaining to Ursi that it wasn’t fair she never had to go to Sunday Mass. My kitty expressed her empathy by standing up, stretching her front legs as far as they could go in front of her, then curling up and going back to sleep.
It wasn’t that I dreaded going to Mass. On the contrary, I enjoyed spending a few hours every Sunday morning with Mom. It also served as a good reminder that there was a big world out there, populated with people whose needs were far greater than mine. It was a time to be humble, to be mindful that every day I had the opportunity to be of service to others, even in small ways, and I should be thankful to be in that position.
It was also a great opportunity for people watching.
Brent had begged off going to church with me, claiming he and Luke had one more project on the house and they wanted to get it knocked out first thing. While that may have been true, I knew the real reason. He wasn’t much of a churchgoer. To make up for it, he’d promised to meet me at the apartment after Mom and I had breakfast. He had something special planned for our afternoon.
As I walked into church with Mom, I put Brent’s promise out of my mind. I was interested in seeing if anyone on the list Jeanette sent me was also attending Mass. On the dr
ive home from Indianapolis, Sloane had given me physical descriptions of those I didn’t know, so I kept my eyes peeled as we took a seat and waited for the service to begin.
I’d just feigned a need to scratch the back of my neck to see who was seated behind us when Mom cleared her throat.
“What is with you this morning? You’re acting like you’ve got ants in your pants.” As if I was eight all over again, she put her hand on my shoulder to stop my fidgeting, and I settled down.
I hadn’t gone to church all my life without learning how to spy on people without getting caught, though. Putting my long-dormant church observation skills to work, by the time Mass ended, I’d located five people on the list.
It was a pleasant morning weather-wise, so I was hoping people would congregate outside the church entrance to catch up on the latest news. It would provide an ideal opportunity to strike up a conversation with one or two of my new persons of interest.
My plans were thwarted when someone tapped me on the shoulder mere seconds after I stepped outside. It was Lori.
Instinct kicked in, and I gave her a hug as we said hello. It was a good thing. Even if she was at the top of my suspect list, she didn’t need to know I didn’t trust her. To keep the charade going, I bent over and introduced myself to Brittany.
“Mommy says you’re a secret agent who makes books.”
I grinned. She wasn’t too far off the mark for a five-year-old. “Kind of. I help people who write books.”
“Can you help find my daddy? I want him to come home.”
My eyes got watery. No child should ever have to ask a question like that. After blinking the tears away, I glanced at Lori. Her face was flushed, whether from embarrassment or guilt, I couldn’t tell.
“I told her about our chat the other day,” Lori said. “You know how kids can be with their imaginations.”
“Some really smart people are working very hard to find out what happened to your dad. It’s their job. Your job”—I tapped the little girl on the tip of her nose, which brought forth a giggle—“is to be a good girl for your mom. Do you think you can do that for me?”