Lucianne raised her strategically penciled eyebrow and shrugged. She pulled the original of the Capitol News book review column from a voluminous tote. “You sound like Jared. Tell me about your book.”
“You’re in Fall Creek just to interview me? I don’t live near the lake.”
Lucianne shrugged. “People like to read ‘local person makes good’ stories.”
“In Capitol City? A Fall Creek citizen? I’m surprised.”
“True. So tell me.”
“What’s to tell? I’ve been working on it for two years. Last fall, an editor at CrimeCase Books bought print rights.”
“So it’s totally fiction?”
“Isn’t a novel by definition fiction?”
“Not based on a case you heard about through Eddy or Jared?”
“Where would you get that idea?” Royce willed herself not to fidget under Lucianne’s penetrating stare.
“I remember your first sales were nonfiction articles. When did you change genres?”
She was referring to her days as chairwoman of the Library Committee while she was married to Jared and worked as a features reporter with the Fall Creek Tribune. Lucianne had persuaded Royce to put together a publicity brochure for the library. Royce discovered a late-blooming talent for “stringing words together,” as Lucianne said with a grin, when the committee unanimously approved Royce’s maiden writing effort. But soon after, Lucianne took a job with a larger newspaper in the state capital, leaving Jared in Fall Creek. Eventually, they divorced, and she had rarely returned to Fall Creek.
As a result of Lucianne’s encouragement, Royce sold several articles to a regional magazine and on the Web.
The seed of an idea for a novel came to her one day while doing volunteer work with records at the police station. With Eddy’s encouragement, she completed the book and sent it out with anxiety and apprehension to a half-dozen agents. She wasn’t going to admit to the other woman where her idea had come from though.
“It’s quite credible, you know,” Lucianne offered.
“Well, that is the idea. Who would read something so unbelievable it couldn’t have happened?”
“You have a point.” Lucianne pulled a pad and pen from her tote bag.
Royce smiled. “Thelma Morrell and her sister don’t agree with you. They think it’s trash.”
Lucianne laid her pen down and reached for her coffee with a deliberate motion. “Her sister?”
“She works for the television station.” Royce heard a malicious satisfaction in her voice that she had caught Lucianne Sibley up short for once.
“Here in Fall Creek?”
“Yes. I was the featured roast subject on her television show today.”
“She didn’t mention a sister when I interviewed her for the paper a few years ago. Are you sure?”
“I overheard them talking after the show. They mentioned you, as a matter of fact.”
“Me? Thelma and that woman? Suze what’s-her-name?”
“Yes.”
“What did they say about me?”
“Thelma called you a ‘Dirty Harriet wannabe.’ Which is odd. The ‘Dirty Harriet’ character I seem to recall was a hard-nosed policewoman. Who carried a gun.”
“Did they say anything else?” Lucianne’s face had gone still and even paler than usual.
“Just that Suze doing the interview with me might give you ideas, or something to that effect.”
Lucianne laughed, but it sounded a little strained. Her right hand toyed with her cup. She seemed to be trying to make up her mind about something. After a moment, she looked up. “What do you know about Thelma Morrell, Royce?”
Where had that come from? Royce stared at Lucianne. “Know about…? You’re the Fall Creek native, Lucianne.”
“I was working on my master’s in journalism at Vanderbilt when Thelma came to Fall Creek. You and Eddy had already moved here though.”
Royce shrugged. “She worked at the hospital. I never met her there, but she gave Eddy a hard time about his insurance. She’d been here a couple of years when she married Bert.”
“And the rest is history, right? But that’s it. Her history seems to have begun in Fall Creek.”
“Begun? What do you mean?” Royce asked, then wished she’d kept quiet. She just wanted to forget Thelma Morrell and Suze Mackie.
“When I interviewed her, she was very vague about where she came from, her family, education, and so on. Said she was from up North, but she doesn’t sound like it. Lived in Europe a few years, small family, all gone. Now you’re telling me she has a sister.”
“I heard her call Suze Mackie ‘little sister.’ Maybe she’s, oh, a college sorority sister or something.” Royce stood.
“You didn’t come across any information that could have pointed—hinted—to her when you were doing research for the book?”
“Thelma? Seriously? What are you getting at?”
“Just an idea I had. Finding things out is part of my job.”
Royce waited to see if Lucianne would add any clarification to her mystifying questions about Thelma Morrell. But the reporter went back to digging in her tote bag. Royce shrugged, took a leaf from Thelma’s book, and left the table without another word.
Before leaving Frankie’s, Royce decided to make a quick pit stop. Just as she stepped into the last stall, she heard someone enter the room.
Lucianne Sibley was speaking as she came through the door. “—think? Hell, I’m telling you, Howard, she knows I’m digging into Thelma Morrell’s past. And I couldn’t hide my surprise at the Suze Mackie connection.”
She was silent for a moment. “After Mackie interviewed her, Royce heard them talking, and a reference was made to the fact they’re sisters.” Another silence. “Well, somebody’s spooked. I’ve got a bullet wound to show it. I don’t suppose you’ve found the bullet or the casing?”
The sound of running water sounded briefly, then the door opened again, and Royce heard nothing further. She rinsed her own hands, left the restroom, and walked back to the television station parking lot. Her mind buzzed with questions. She pressed the remote to unlock her car and got in but didn’t start the engine for a moment.
Lucianne had spoken the name “Howard,” while presumably talking on a cell phone. FBI Agent Howard? What could investigative reporter Lucianne Sibley have to do with the FBI?
Lucianne’s phone call reminded Royce she had not yet called the court clerk’s office in Pineville. She wanted to verify their office hours and the information she’d found online about passport requirements. She pulled out her cell phone and notepad and keyed the number.
After three rings, a nasal female voice answered. “Pine County Court Clerk’s Office.”
“My name is Royce Thorne. I understand that to apply for a passport I will need to bring my birth certificate and two forms of picture identification. Is that right?”
“Yes, Ms. Thorne. You’ve never had a passport?”
“Never.”
Royce heard keys clicking on the other end of the line and then the woman spoke again. “You say you never applied for and received a passport?”
“I have not. Why?”
“A passport was issued in the name of Royce Henderson Thorne six months ago.”
“Six months ago, I was not even thinking of applying for a passport.” Royce couldn’t credit what the woman was saying. A bureaucratic snafu. Something else to deal with.
“You’d better come into our office immediately. We’ll need to look into this since you claim you don’t have a passport.”
Royce had to pick up Devon at the vet’s office. By the time she got him home and drove to Pineville, the office would be closed.
“I’m not claiming I don’t have one. I do not have a passport. And I certainly will come in. But I can’t today. I’ll be there tomorrow.”
The route she took to the veterinary clinic took her past the low glazed-concrete sign for the Fall Creek Village Shopping Center with the eve
r-present waterfall logo. The pharmacy name on the list of shopping center tenants reminded her that she had forgotten to pick up the flea tablets for Devon on Friday. She turned in under the arched entrance and parked near the door of the pharmacy. It was a slow Monday afternoon for the store, and only a few stragglers were in the aisles. She grabbed the bottle of pills from a shelf in the pet department and walked to the sales register.
Brenda reached for the bottle and rang up the sale. She placed it and the register receipt in a small plastic bag with the pharmacy logo on it and started to hand it to Royce.
“Sure is a shame about Palm Woodstone’s trouble. Being accused of murder and robbery.” Her gaze was intense as she spoke, still holding the plastic bag.
“I’m sure he’ll be cleared very soon,” Royce replied crisply. She held out her hand for the bag.
“If he isn’t, soon, I mean, will it delay your and his dad’s wedding plans?” The girl’s tone was so matter-of-fact that Royce, who had already dismissed the girl and was mentally out of the door, hardly heard the question. Then it hit her.
“What did you say?”
“Your marriage to Mr. Woodstone. What if Palm is tried and all? Will you still get married or postpone it?” There was a touch of insolence in the young woman’s tone. And something else. If Royce could have credited it, she would have called it envy.
“What gave you the idea I’m marrying Hal Woodstone?” Royce finally had the wit to ask.
“He told me.” Surprise showed in Brenda’s dark eyes. “You are, aren’t you?”
Was there no end to Hal Woodstone’s arrogance? “When did he tell you that?” Royce managed to ask.
“Friday, after you both were in here. He said he was going to pop the question, and he was certain you’d flip at the chance to be Mrs. Woodstone. Me, too. He’s quite a catch in this town.”
Brenda’s insolent expression had given way to something else. Hope? Was Royce’s impression on Friday of some intimate connection between Brenda and Hal on target? And yet he’d told the girl he was asking Royce to marry him and expected her to “flip”! This was too much to think about right now. Her first priority had to be clearing Palm, whether or not his father agreed. Remembering Hal’s lack of complete belief in Palm’s innocence only increased her anger toward him.
Her milling thoughts found no answer to Brenda’s last observation of Hal’s value as a marital catch. She grabbed the plastic bag from Brenda’s hand and tried to stuff it into her handbag. The cell phone she’d shoved in the bag as she left home lay on top of everything. In her agitation, her thumb pressed its on button. She jumped when it began to warble the notes of “My Hometown” immediately.
A woman dragging a whining child came up behind Royce. She stepped away from the counter and fished the phone out, depressing the answer key. “Yes. Hello.”
“Royce! It’s me, Chrys. I’ve been trying to reach you.” Chrys’s words ended in a hysterical wail.
“Chrys. I’m sorry. I’ve been away from home, and my phone was turned off. What’s wrong? How is your mother?”
“I can’t find her. She isn’t here. The shop’s locked up tight as a drum, and no one has seen her for days.”
“Calm down, Chrys. You’ll find her. Have you called the hospitals?”
“No! Oh, God. Do you think she’s been hurt?”
“Or she got sick suddenly. None of the neighbors saw an ambulance maybe?”
“I’m frightened. She’s all I have. There are so many hospitals.”
“I think you should call the police. They can check them much faster.”
“I don’t want to. Mom never trusted anyone in authority after they tried to take me away from her.”
“I understand. But I think you need to call them. That’s the quickest way to find her. It’ll be all right.”
“Okay. Okay. I’ll call them.”
“I’m going home as soon as I pick up Devon. Call if you need me.”
“How is he? I’ve been so worried about Mom, I forgot about him. I’m sorry.”
“He’s fine.” She didn’t want to take time now to go into detail about the chloroform.
She pushed through the glass door, concern for the distraught young woman churning in her brain along with worry over Palm. A hand grabbed her elbow.
She looked up. Hal Woodstone. She jerked away. “How dare you?”
“You were so deep in thought you nearly knocked me down. Excuse me for touching you, ma’am.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.
“You know what I mean. You told that girl—Brenda—we were going to be married. What a pathetic lie.”
“You have to marry me. You owe it to me.”
“Owe it to you? Are you mad?” Her hand flew up and gave him a hard whack across his well-tanned cheek.
His face darkened and jaw twitched. Both hands balled into fists. Then he glanced around. They were standing in front of the pharmacy doors. People had to go around them to enter the store, some staring with open curiosity. He took her elbow again and pulled her aside.
“You were part of it. Now you’re the only one left to make it up to me.” His dark eyes glittered under the rugged brows.
She stared. How had she missed his paranoia before now? She edged away, detaching herself from his grasp with some effort.
“Make no mistake,” he said. “We will talk about this later.” He jerked open one of the doors, and the woman and the whining child nearly fell out onto the concrete.
“Bonehead!” she yelled. “Watch where you’re going.”
She looked at Royce. “Your friend has a problem.”
“I’m sorry. He does. Are you all right?”
“No thanks to him.” The woman walked away, dragging her still-whining child.
And he’s not the only one. Why in God’s name did she apologize for something Hal Woodstone did?
Royce whirled toward her car, still shaking with rage. The presumption of the man. Owed him marriage? “You were part of it,” he’d said. What “it”? He must know about Eddy and Palm. And he told Palm that Eddy was his father. Was that why Palm was so remote? She had to talk to him again.
She got into her car and pulled out her cell phone. She dialed the jail number and told the man who answered she had to see Palmer Woodstone. He asked her name and told her to hold on.
“Ma’am?” He came back on the line. “I’m sorry, Mr. Woodstone won’t see you.”
Chapter Sixteen
At Dr. Loper’s clinic, Devon greeted her by jumping up and putting both front feet on her shoulders. His happiness at seeing his mistress hardly exceeded her own. She drove home with her canine friend, lively once more. She tried to think of a way to convince Palm to see her again. He must. They had to figure out together what was going on, why somebody was framing Palm for Fern Rock’s murder. And then Palm would be released.
Arriving home, she opened the door for Devon, flipped up the cover of her mail box, grabbed the mail, and went inside. She threw the envelopes on her desk and knelt to hug the dog. “I was so worried about you, mutt. You’re a good dog. A wonderful dog.” He padded to the back door and whined.
“Couldn’t go at the clinic, huh? Well, I’m watching you every minute you’re out, friend. Stay close by.” She opened the door and walked out on the deck, keeping a sharp eye on the dog as he took care of business.
After he returned to the deck, she stood for a moment looking out on her peaceful garden. She turned back to the house and motioned for Devon to precede her into the kitchen. She picked up the mail she’d brought in. On top was another hand-addressed envelope, flimsier than the heavy vellum type she had received earlier. Another solicitation for some charity, no doubt, though it bore no return address. She dropped it back on the stack. She couldn’t deal with it now.
How could she persuade Palm to talk to her? There had to be a way. She started to pick up the phone. It shrilled under her hand, and she snatched it up. Maybe it was the jail, and Palm had changed his mind.
Royce wanted to reassure the girl, but she could hardly dredge up the words. Two disappearances. But Palm had turned up. Surely Chrys’s mother would be found, too. “They’re checking all the hospitals, right?”
“Yes. Oh, God, they asked me if she had any scars or other identifying marks on her body.”
“It’s routine, Chrys. They have to cover all possibilities. Does she?”
“Only the daisies tattooed around her left ankle. She would touch them, run her fingers over them when she was tired or upset.”
Royce’s stomach felt as though an icy stone had dropped into it. She didn’t know the girl’s mother. Aside from a human feeling of compassion for Chrys, she could see no reason for this reaction. Daisies. Royce stared at the wall, seeing in her mind’s eye barely visible flower tattoos on a once dainty ankle. Silence hummed on the telephone line. She couldn’t tell Chrys the awful suspicion that had leapt into her mind, not over the phone. But she had to say something.
“You haven’t found anything to suggest she’d planned to take a trip?”
“Hardly. Her bank account is practically zero. That’s not unusual. I found a receipt for a doctor visit she didn’t tell me about. I called the office, but the doctor is gone for the day and they won’t tell me anything.”
“Well, if she’s in a hospital somewhere, the police will find her. Try to stay calm, honey.”
“I’ll try. Oh, there’s something else.”
“What?”
“I found her phone journal. It’s almost all calls from me. But it’s odd. The things she jotted down.”
“How so?”
“Like, ‘C met R. C likes Fall Creek. C ran into H.’ Stuff like that.”
“You’ve no idea what she meant by them?”
“No. The last one was a couple of days ago. It just says ‘C and P, money, TBM. Deserve it.’ I don’t understand it. What could it mean?”
“You said the man you called Uncle Matt had no children. You’re certain?”
“That’s what he said. We’d no reason to doubt it.”
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