Silver River Secrets

And yet her thoughts lingered on their meeting. They’d exchanged more words tonight than during any other time their paths had crossed when she’d come to town. So what? Trapped by circumstances, they were only being civil to each other, exchanging small talk that didn’t mean anything. In a few days, she’d be gone again.

Meanwhile, she’d be sure to keep her distance.

* * *

LACEY SURVEYED THE array of food displayed on the B and B’s dining room sideboard, from scrambled eggs and hash browns to waffles and oatmeal and fresh fruit. She breathed in all the enticing aromas, and her stomach rumbled. After her unsettling encounter with Rory, she’d spent a restless night, but that hadn’t dulled her hunger this morning. The conversation of other guests drifted through the room. The door to the courtyard stood open, admitting a fresh morning breeze.

Sophie bustled in carrying a tray of coffee cups. “Good morning, Lacey.” She set the tray next to the coffee urn.

“Hi, Sophie.” Lacey slowly shook her head. “I don’t know how you do it.”

Sophie quirked an eyebrow. “Do what?”

“The party last night, and now this fantastic breakfast.” She made a sweeping gesture to include the sideboard.

Sophie laughed and fingered the turquoise scarf holding back her hair. “The committee prepared last night’s food, and this spread is our cook’s doing. She’s a marvel. Still, compliments are always welcome... I was glad to see you at the party,” she added, as she unloaded the cups.

“Kris caught me as I came home from Gram’s.”

“Ah, so I had a little help, did I? Well, you came, anyway. I saw you talking to Rory—” She cast Lacey a cautious glance.

Lacey picked up a plate and helped herself to the scrambled eggs. “All these years, we’ve never said much more than ‘Hi,’ and then last night we actually had a conversation. Sort of.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing.”

Lacey shrugged and added hash browns to her eggs. “I can’t imagine why. We won’t get together again.”

“You never know.” Sophie finished unloading the cups and picked up the tray. “Oh, by the way, are you going up to Restlawn to visit the graves sometime this trip?”

“Yes, I’d planned to go this morning, before I start cleaning out Gram’s old apartment.”

“Feel free to take some of the flowers in the courtyard.” Sophie gestured toward the open doors.

“Why, thanks, Sophie. That’s thoughtful of you.”

“That way, Hugh and I can pay our respects, too. He’s outside now. You can get a bucket and some clippers from him and choose the flowers you want.”

Half an hour later, Lacey found Hugh outside folding up the tables from last night’s party. Dressed in blue overalls and a white T-shirt, he looked more like the farmer he used to be than the proprietor of an elegant bed-and-breakfast.

“Looks like you’re getting your courtyard back in shape,” Lacey said.

“That was some party.” Hugh lifted his baseball cap, smoothed his gray crew cut and then settled the cap back on his head.

They chatted a bit, and then Lacey said, “I’m going up to Restlawn this morning, and Sophie said I could take some of your flowers, and that you’d have something I could put them in.”

“Sure. Wait here a minute.”

Hugh disappeared inside a toolshed, emerging a couple minutes later carrying a plastic bucket and a pair of clippers. He handed them to Lacey. “These should do the job.”

“Thanks, Hugh.”

“Take some of the pansies.” Hugh indicated the flowers clustered in one of the beds. “Your mother’s favorite.”

“They were, and I will take some.”

“Don’t suppose Rick would care what flowers you put on his grave,” Hugh said in a dry tone. “Not that he deserves any.”

Lacey dropped her jaw and stared at Hugh, his unexpected slam at her father taking her off guard. Then she lifted her chin and said crisply, “Well, I care.”

Hugh shook his head. “You’re probably the only one who does.”

CHAPTER THREE (#u2e101700-237b-59ac-8810-5cbd4da22278)

ON THE DRIVE to Restlawn Cemetery, Hugh’s unkind remark about her father rang in Lacey’s ears. But, like many of the townspeople, he believed that Rick Morgan had, in fact, shot Rory’s father, Al Dalton, Jr., in cold blood. Standing by her father hadn’t been easy for Lacey, since the murder had resulted in her mother’s death, too. Sometimes, she had her doubts, but, oh, she didn’t want to believe he could commit such a terrible crime.

If only she could find some proof of his innocence. But little chance of that, especially now that ten years had passed.

She reached the turnoff to Restlawn and followed a narrow, winding road to the iron gates marking the entrance. Spotting the tall oak tree that shaded her grandfather’s and her mother’s graves, she pulled to the side of the road and parked. Bucket of flowers in hand, she trudged over the freshly mowed grass, breathing in the pine-scented air and listening to the twittering birds. Cemeteries always seemed so peaceful, and Restlawn was no exception.

She stopped in front of the headstones, her grandfather’s on the left, her mother’s to the right. On her grandfather’s other side, an empty plot waited for Remy.

When Lacey knelt to place the flowers in the embedded vase on her mother’s grave, she saw that the holder already contained pansies. A glance at her grandfather’s vase revealed his, too, held the delicate blossoms. They were wilted, as though they’d been there for several days.

Who had brought the flowers? Gram used to visit, but not since she’d broken her hip and been confined to her wheelchair.

A sudden unease gripped Lacey, and she glanced over her shoulder. No one was nearby, and no other cars were on the road. Still, she had a creepy feeling someone was watching her.

Lacey turned back to the graves. She thought about removing the wilted flowers but then decided to leave them. Pouring fresh water from the bucket into the vases, she added a few of the flowers she’d brought to each of the embedded vases.

She ran her fingers over her grandfather’s engraved name on the marker, Jason Carl Whitfield, remembering him as a happy man who took pride in his work as a carpenter and who doted on his wife and daughter. Lacey’s mom was spoiled and self-centered, as might be expected of one who’d been the center of her parents’ universe.

On the whole, she’d been a good mother to Lacey, though. Lacey especially remembered the bedtime stories and poetry they shared.

Lacey touched her mother’s carved name, too, and then whispered a prayer for both of them. Grasping the bucket, she stood and, still uneasy, looked around again. Seeing no one, she turned her steps toward her father’s grave, which was some distance away.

I won’t have that murderer near my family! Gram had declared.

He wouldn’t be here at all but for Lacey’s insistence. When he died in prison, she arranged to have his remains returned to Silver River and had with her own money purchased the plot and the marker. She chose an especially pleasant spot, with a nearby fountain shaded by several maple trees. But unlike her grandfather and her mother, who’d both been mourned in public services, only Lacey—and the grave digger—were present to witness Richard Mark Morgan’s burial.

As she knelt to place flowers in the vase, she saw purple-and-white pansies, the same flowers that were in her grandfather’s and her mother’s vases. Apparently, the same person had visited all three graves. Who? Someone who believed in Rick’s innocence, as she did?

Lacey added her flowers to the vase, whispering, “I still believe in you, Dad. And maybe someone else does, too.”

Before leaving the cemetery, Lacey pulled into a viewpoint overlooking the town. From here she could see Main Street, busy as usual, with vehicles and pedestrians. Beyond the business district were blocks of homes, and then the river, sparkling in the sunlight.

Sadness filled her. Silver River was a pleasant and peaceful town. She’d been happy living here until that fateful day ten years ago. Now she lived in exile. Not that she didn’t like Boise. She did. And she liked her job with the historical society. But Boise could never replace Silver River and the happiness she had known here.

* * *