ROBERT FRASIER AND HIS WIFE, SARAH, HAD LIVED IN THE SAME house in the Oak Cliff section of Dallas since he first assumed the pastorate of the Mount Hermon Bible Church more than two decades earlier. Shannon sensed Megan stiffen as their car pulled into the driveway. She wondered when Megan had last been back home. Funny, Shannon had lived in a college dorm, then an apartment near the Southwestern Medical Center campus, and finally a house of her own, but this was—and probably always would be—home for her.
They were about to exit the car when Shannon’s cell phone rang and Mark’s name flashed across the screen. She looked at Megan, who made a “Be my guest” gesture. Apparently, anything that delayed her reunion with her parents was fine with her.
“Hey, you,” Shannon said.
“How are you today?”
“Not too bad, considering. How’s your head?”
“Pretty sore, and I’m going to have a doozy of a bruise. Otherwise, no lasting effects. I skipped church, but I’m feeling a little cabin fever.” Mark cleared his throat. “Would you and Megan like to have lunch with me?”
“Sorry, Mark. We’re going to have lunch with my folks,” Shannon said.
“Both of you?” Mark’s tone told Shannon he had a hard time believing what he’d just heard.
“Mark, I need to cut this short—my folks will be home from church any minute. We had a visit from the police last night about Tony.”
“What about him?”
“He’s dead.”
Mark’s shock registered in his voice. “Tony’s dead? Did Megan hit him too hard? Did he develop a subdural hematoma or something?”
“We don’t know. The police wouldn’t tell us. Said they were simply doing field interviews, getting stories from everyone they could.”
“How did they know Megan was living with Tony?”
“They said they found her address book in his apartment. I suppose after that they just put two and two together.”
“We searched all over for that address book,” Mark said. “Guess we needed the police to help us hunt.” He cleared his throat. “Did you tell them I was there?”
“We didn’t mention you by name, just said that my boyfriend was with Megan. But if they ask, we’ll have to identify you, so you might hear from them.”
Shannon turned her head as a black Chrysler turned into the drive and stopped beside her car. “My folks are here. I’ll call you later.”
As Shannon dropped the phone into her purse, Megan looked at her sister. “How long have you and Mark been dating?”
“About a year. Why?”
Megan shook her head. “I was wondering how long it would be before he asks you to marry him.”
“Don’t worry. You’re in line to be the maid of honor.” I’m just not sure when that will happen . . . if ever.
WHETHER IT WAS COINCIDENCE OR GOD’S PROVIDENCE, HER father’s sermon that morning had been based on Luke 15—the parable of the prodigal son. Shannon’s feelings made her squirm then, and they continued to make her uncomfortable now. Maybe it was because she identified too closely with the son who stayed home, the good son—the one who resented the attention the prodigal received.
Before the front door closed behind them, the girls both got enthusiastic hugs and kisses from their parents.
“Mom, we don’t want to be any trouble,” Shannon said. “Can we take you out to lunch?”
Her mother was already tying on an apron. “Not on your life. I have a roast in the oven, with potatoes and vegetables. I’ll just pop in some rolls and put together a salad.” She looked at her younger daughter. “Do you still like creamed corn?”
“Sure,” Megan said, “but I haven’t had it in a while.”
“Well, you’ll have it today. And I’ll fix some green beans for you, Shannon.”
After their dad excused himself to get out of his coat and tie, and their mom hurried off to the kitchen, Megan whispered to her sister, “Dad looks like he’s lost some weight. Is anything wrong?”
“I don’t really know. I guess I see him often enough that if there was a gradual change, I might not notice it.” But I should have. Ah, guilt . . . the gift that keeps on giving.
When her dad took his accustomed place at the head of the table, Shannon decided Megan might be right. He had lost weight. But everything else was the same. His neatly trimmed mustache matched his full head of steel-gray hair. His blue eyes were bright as ever behind horn-rimmed glasses. In a changing world, her dad was a constant, an anchor. Shannon took a deep breath and relaxed. It was good to be with family.
After a blessing that included thanks for the reuniting of the family, everyone devoted themselves to passing and consuming roast beef with gravy, potatoes, carrots, creamed corn, green beans, salad, and homemade rolls.
Toward the end of the meal, Shannon’s dad put down his fork and said, “Shannon, would you like to tell us what’s bothering you?”
“What makes you think something’s bothering me?” she said.
He smiled. “Before I went to seminary, I earned a good bit of my college spending money playing poker. That’s when I learned about tells. You have a tell, you know. Sarah and I noticed it when you were a teenager.”
“You what?” Shannon asked.
“It helped us a lot when you were younger,” her mom added.
“When you’re hiding something, you fiddle with your right ear—play with the earring, finger the lobe,” her dad said. “You’ve been doing that for the past five minutes. Want to share?”
Shannon put her napkin beside her plate. “Well, I guess you need to know some things.”
“You mean that Megan has moved in with you,” her dad said.
“There’s a lot more to it than that,” Shannon said. “Megan, do you want to tell this?”
Megan shook her head, then looked down and rearranged the napkin in her lap.
“Okay, I guess it’s up to me.” Shannon related how Megan had lost her job, her breakup with Tony, the trip back to the house, and finally the police visit during the night.
“Is Mark okay?” her dad asked.
“He called me after church. He still has a headache, but he’ll be all right.”
“So where do we go from here?”
“We don’t know yet. The police obviously think Megan was the last person to see Tony alive, so I imagine they’ll have more questions for her.”
The Frasiers looked at each other. “If she needs a good attorney, we’ll help,” her mom said.
“I should be able to handle it, but thank you,” Shannon said. “The wife of a colleague is an excellent defense lawyer. If the time comes, I’ll call her.” She finished the iced tea in her glass. Her hand went to her ear, then dropped as she realized what she was doing. “I guess you need to know this, too. There was a shooting outside my house on Friday night.”
Shannon related those events as concisely as she could, careful to hide the emotion that the retelling generated. Her mind kept replaying scenes burned into her memory—the body bag being wheeled off her lawn and into the coroner’s van, alternating with the scene ten years ago as Todd’s body was taken away. As her narrative wound down, she said, “Steve Alston is one of the detectives investigating that shooting. I almost jumped out of my skin when he approached me at church this morning. I thought he’d come to arrest me or something.”
“Steve’s a nice fellow. He moved here about six months ago,” her dad said. “I’m not sure where he came from—Oklahoma or Arkansas, I think. His wife was killed in an auto accident. He took a position with the police department in Dallas, hoping to get a fresh start, get away from the memories.”
“So he wasn’t at church just to see me,” Shannon said.
“No, he comes every Sunday when he’s not working.” Her dad pushed back from the table. “Why? Is there any reason for you two girls to be afraid of the police?”
Shannon looked at Megan, who kept her eyes on her plate. Then she shook her head. “No, Dad. No reason at all
.”
AFTER SHANNON PARKED HER CAR IN THE DRIVEWAY OF HER HOME, Megan broke her silence. “Mom and Dad seemed pretty calm when you told them about everything that’s happening.”
“Did you expect anything different?” Shannon said. “No matter what life throws at them, they seem to take it pretty well. How many times have we heard Dad say, ‘God’s in control’?”
“Well, I wish I could be that certain everything’s going to come out all right. I keep waiting to be arrested.”
“Hold on,” Shannon said. “Remember, you’re innocent until proven guilty.”
“Did you have a chance to ask Mom about Dad’s weight loss?” Megan said.
“No, but I will.” I’ll just add that to the million other things I’m juggling right now.
Once inside the house, Megan said, “Tomorrow I’ll start looking for a job. Okay if I use your iron and ironing board? I don’t want to go job hunting wearing wrinkled clothes.”
“No problem.”
“I’ll take them to my room. I think that will be easier.”
“Fine,” Shannon said. “I’m going to lie down for a while.”
In her bedroom, Shannon kicked off her shoes and flopped onto the bed. She lay there, staring at the molding in the far corner of the room, and tried to get her thoughts together. Take things in order. Decide what you can do something about and what you can’t.
The shooting on her lawn remained a mystery. She’d talked with detectives. If something more came up that involved her, they’d call. There was nothing she could do right now—although it was a real surprise to see Detective Alston at church this morning. Was that really a coincidence?
As if one murder weren’t enough, there was Tony’s death. From the little Megan had said about her boyfriend, he appeared to have moved on the shady side of things. Her sister might be a suspect, but she undoubtedly had company in that respect. There were probably a lot of people who had it in for Tony Lester. Until she knew more about the situation, all Shannon could do was sit tight.
Other things? What about her relationship with Mark? The ball was sort of in his court. Frankly, she was comfortable with their current relationship. If he didn’t move forward, she’d eventually have to decide what to do—but not today. Not right now.
The ring of her cell phone brought her up short. She pulled the phone from her pocket. Caller ID didn’t help—private number. Shannon rolled over to sit on the side of the bed as she answered the call. “Dr. Frasier.”
“Is this Shannon Frasier?”
“Yes.” Shannon thought she recognized the voice, and her heart rate sped up.
“This is Steve Alston. We need to talk.”
FIVE
A DOZEN THOUGHTS RACED THROUGH SHANNON’S MIND, NONE OF them good. She cleared her throat. She had no idea how to respond, so she simply waited for Alston to continue.
“First, let me say that I’m glad I ran into you at church this morning. Maybe we’ll see each other there again.”
Shannon remained silent. She had no idea where this was going, but she had a terribly uneasy feeling about it. Alston’s next words confirmed that feeling.
“Now for the official part. After church, I went back to the office. Jesse had more information about the man who was killed outside your house.”
“Isn’t this your partner’s day off, too?”
“Jesse’s divorced. Happens to a lot of cops. Since he doesn’t have anyone at home to keep him there, he spends a lot of time working.”
Shannon tried to get the conversation back on track. “You said you know who was killed on my lawn.”
“Yes, but I don’t want to discuss it on the phone.”
“Do . . . do you want me to come down to police headquarters?” she asked.
“Not at all,” Alston said. “I don’t have anything scheduled. I thought perhaps I could come by your house later this afternoon. Would that work?”
Shannon’s head was reeling. Didn’t detectives do questioning in pairs, so there’d be a witness to what was said? Was this truly official, or did Alston want to see her outside the presence of his partner? Should she call Mark and ask him to be here during the interview?
“I guess that would be okay,” she finally said. “When can I expect you?”
“I need to wrap up some things down here at the office. Say, in an hour?”
She started to ask if he knew where she lived, then bit back the words. He knew where she lived—he’d been here less than forty-eight hours ago. By now he’d probably run her name through all sorts of databases and knew more about her than she could imagine. She settled on saying, “Fine. I’ll see you then.”
After she ended the call, Shannon lay back on her bed and squeezed her eyes shut. What was coming next? And how could she prepare for it?
She was still trying to decide whether to call Mark and ask him to come over when the doorbell rang. She glanced at the clock on her bedside table. Less than thirty minutes had elapsed since Alston’s call. Was he early?
Shannon opened the door and found Mark on her tiny porch. He was holding a slightly grease-stained white paper sack. “I was in the grocery store down the street from me when I smelled this wonderful fragrance coming from their bakery. They had just turned out a fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies. I know how much you like them, so I decided to bring some by.”
“Mark, you always seem to know the right thing to do,” Shannon said. “I need something to cheer me up, and nothing does it like chocolate.” She ushered him inside, gave him a hug and a kiss, and gestured toward one of the chairs in the living room.
“Would you like some milk? Coffee?”
“Milk would be great with the cookies,” he said.
In a few minutes they were seated at the kitchen table, each with a glass of milk, the sack of cookies between them. They munched silently for a moment. “Is Megan around? I need to unload her things that are in my car.”
“In her room, ironing,” Shannon said. “How’s your head?”
“I’ll be okay.” He touched his temple where the swelling had almost subsided but the bruising was fully developed. “Any further word from the police about Tony?”
“No, but I’m glad you’re here. Detective Alston called. He has more information about the man who was shot in my front yard Friday night, and he’s on his way over.”
Mark frowned. “Do you want some privacy? Should I go?”
“No,” Shannon said, and realized she meant it. “Please stay. This concerns you as much as it does me.”
Megan came through the doorway. “I thought I heard voices.” She walked over to the sack and helped herself to a cookie. “What’s up?”
Shannon decided there was no need for Megan to be involved in her conversation with Alston. The less visible her sister was, especially to the police, the better things would be. “Mark brought over some cookies. The police will be here in a few minutes to talk about the man who was shot in my front yard Friday night.” Before Megan could say anything, Shannon moved on. “Would you mind staying in your room while they’re here? Take some cookies with you.”
Megan raised her eyebrows. “Any particular reason you want me out of sight?”
“Frankly, this is about the Friday-night shooting, so it doesn’t concern you. Given the situation of Tony’s death, the less involvement you have with the police right now, the better off you’ll be,” Shannon said. “I’ll fill you in later.”
“Okay. Let me know when they’ve gone.” Megan took the carton of milk from the refrigerator, poured a glass, picked up three more cookies, and flounced out of the room.
Mark shook his head. “Trying to make sure she keeps a low profile?”
“Among other things. We saw Detective Alston when we were leaving church this morning. She was anxious to meet him, but I got her out of there before she could try to work her wiles on him.”
“I noticed that you told her the police would be here, not Detective Alston,” Mark said.
> “As I said, she was batting her eyes at him this morning after church.”
“Isn’t it a little soon after Tony’s death for Megan to be getting back into the game?”
“Exactly,” Shannon said. “But, in case you haven’t figured it out, that’s Megan. She doesn’t feel complete without a man in her life, and she’s already looking for a replacement.”
“Shannon, I’ve tried not to say anything, but Megan’s—”
Mark stopped when the doorbell rang. Shannon looked at her watch. “That should be the detective now.”
Mark stood and followed Shannon to the front door.
If Alston was surprised by Mark’s presence, he hid it well. He shook Mark’s hand, thanked Shannon for seeing him on a Sunday, and took the seat to which she directed him, facing the sofa where she sat down beside Mark.
She wasn’t sure if Alston intended for this to be a social call, but if that was the case, Shannon decided to short-circuit it right now. “What have you learned about the man who was shot in my yard?”
Alston reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat and extracted a thin sheaf of papers, which he unfolded. “We ran the man’s prints. His name was Barry Radick. He was sentenced in 2007 to ten years at Huntsville for aggravated robbery. Paroled after four. We’re still piecing together his movements from that time until he turned up dead on your lawn.”
Shannon asked the question that had been bothering her since the shooting. “What was he doing in my neighborhood?”
“We’re still working on that. He was there on purpose, though. The keys in his pocket matched a Ford Focus that was parked a half block away, on the other side of the street.”
“What else do you know about Radick?” Mark asked.
“Nothing yet,” Alston said, refolding the paper and putting it away. “I mainly wanted to see if the name meant anything to you.”
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