When Summer Comes

B and B down the street, which her parents bought shortly after their marriage.” She rested one graceful-looking hand on her hip. “It’s rumored to be haunted by the ghost of a six-year-old girl who was murdered in the basement in 1871.”

He slid his hands into his pockets. “Do you believe that’s true?”

“The murder’s documented. I don’t know about the haunting. Some strange things have certainly happened there. Eve’s not the superstitious type, would never make this up. And she’s not the only one who’s experienced strange noises and movement. Some people even claim to have seen the child’s ghost.”

“But not Eve.”

“She hasn’t, no.”

“Who killed the girl?”

“No one knows. The truth never came out.”

“Sounds like the twentieth-century equivalent of the JonBenét Ramsey case.”

“I guess you could say that. Unsolved Mysteries came here the first of the year and did a show on it. They hired investigators and forensic profilers and had Simon do a cameo appearance. In the end, they tried to say it was most likely the gardener, but I wasn’t convinced.”

“What about her father?”

Callie seemed mildly surprised by the question. “He was an older wealthy man who married late in life. Mary was his only child. You think he might’ve killed her?”

“I’m thinking he would’ve had access and opportunity.”

“But his own daughter?”

“Maybe she made him angry. Maybe he was trying to punish her and got carried away, went too far.” He understood how that went, didn’t he? If his father wasn’t beating on him physically, he was pushing him in the gym.

“The show suggested that exact scenario as their second favorite solution. But they couldn’t uncover any proof. I assume that’s why they went with the gardener. Who wants to believe a father could be so heinous?”

No one. Only the mother was likely to know what the father was capable of. But if she was as cowed as his mother had been, it wouldn’t matter. The child would be left with no protection.

Callie went through the rest of the group, telling him who everyone was and what each person did for a living. Noah Somebody owned a bike store. Baxter North commuted to San Francisco, where he worked as a stockbroker. Kyle manufactured solar panels.

“So he’s rich?” Levi asked.

“Kyle?”

He nodded. In the picture, he wasn’t standing by Callie. He had his arm around someone else.

“He’s not as rich as Simon and Gail,” she said. “But almost no one’s as rich as they are. Still, Kyle does very well for himself.”

Levi looked back at the portrait. “Who’s this?”

She’d already told him, but repeated the name. “Cheyenne. Pretty, isn’t she?”

Not as pretty as Callie. None of the other women were as pretty as Callie.

“But don’t get your hopes up,” she teased. “She just got married.”

“And this person?” He pointed to someone else.

“That’s Ted Dixon. He’s a thriller writer. Has a handful of books out. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”

“No.” He’d never done much reading, not even when he was in school. Homework and preparing for college—that hadn’t been nearly as important to his father as making sure Levi was lifting weights and learning new martial-arts moves. Leo had needed a prizefighter to put his dojo on the map. His own street cred had depended on it; so had the amount he could earn.

Tina interrupted with a question for Callie, and Callie walked over to the computer to help. When she returned, she touched his arm. “You ready to go?”

Levi pulled himself away from the portrait. He hadn’t expected it, but the unity and tranquillity of this town appealed to him.

7

Callie felt a hard lump in her stomach the moment she saw a police cruiser turn down her drive. She’d been out photographing the anthill again while Levi repaired the hinges on the back door of the barn. The roof would need even more work, but due to their trip to town, which had included some grocery shopping on the way home, they hadn’t gotten an early start. He fixed his motorcycle first, so he’d only been working on the barn for an hour. She was already walking to the house, planning what to make for dinner, when she saw that the cop was Tim Stacy, chief of Whiskey Creek’s four-man police force.

Window down, arm hanging out, he didn’t seem to notice the dust being kicked up by his tires. He waved as if this was a friendly visit, but she suspected it wasn’t all that friendly. Although Chief Stacy was about ten years her senior, they’d known each other for years. She’d taken his children’s baby pictures. But if she had to guess, he wasn’t here for personal reasons. He’d come to get to the bottom of the dog incident. She wouldn’t have minded that, except it was probably at Denny and Powell’s insistence.