Silver River Secrets

RORY DROVE ALONG the highway connecting Silver River with Milton. Not that he was going all the way there. He’d turn around soon and head for Dalton Properties, where he worked most afternoons. He’d taken this long drive today to check out the overhaul he’d given the ’58 Dodge, one of his classic car acquisitions bought from a man in Fork City, who’d kept it hidden away in an old shed like buried treasure.

Rory tuned his ear to the engine, but his mind wandered to last night’s party and Lacey Morgan. They’d actually talked to each other. Their conversation had been awkward, but what did he expect?

Their encounter didn’t mean anything, though. Probably wouldn’t happen again.

Thinking of her reminded him that the turnoff to the old Whitfield farm was up ahead. The house still sat there, empty and in disrepair, a constant reminder of the tragedy. Usually, as he passed by, he gritted his teeth and stepped on the gas, eager to put the place behind him.

But today, as the turnoff approached, he found himself slowing down, and in the next moment swung the Dodge off the highway and onto the dirt road leading to the farm. He bumped along, jerking the wheel to avoid potholes and overgrowth pushing through the barbed wire bordering the road. Reaching the house, he put on the brake and gazed out the window at the two-story structure. Paint had peeled off the siding and holes dotted the roof. Ragged curtains hung in a few of the windows.

Memories flooded his mind: bringing Lacey home from school. Doing homework at the kitchen table while sampling her grandmother’s cookies. Hiking down to the river where they lazed in the sunshine or splashed around in inner tubes.

He stepped from the car and walked around to the back of the house. Beyond a stretch of overgrown grass and weeds sat a garage with the door off its hinges, a barn missing part of the roof, a couple of weathered sheds and a chicken coop. And farther yet, past a row of willow trees, a trail led to the river.

He looked up at the house’s second story, focusing on one of the windows. The window where Lacey’s father had stood when he pointed his shotgun at Rory’s father and pulled the trigger. Rory swung his gaze back around to the ground, picking out the spot where his father had died. He shuddered and felt sick to his stomach. He stood there, clenching and unclenching his fists, until he got a grip on himself. Then he marched back to his car, climbed in, slammed the door and drove off.

That house should not still be standing there, he thought, while rumbling back down the dirt road toward the highway. It should have been torn down long ago so that he didn’t have to look at it and be reminded of what had happened there. Ten years ago. Ten long years. High time he did something about that house.

* * *

BACK IN TOWN twenty minutes later, Rory parked in his reserved slot behind the Scott Building on Main Street. He sat there a moment, his mind spinning with his new plan.

A knock on the window interrupted his musings. He looked up to see Stuart MacKenzie, one of his grandfather’s employees.

Rory rolled down the window. “Hey, Stuart. Where are you off to?”

Stuart smoothed the lapels of his lightweight sports jacket. “The Cooper ranch. Old man Cooper is ready to talk business.”

Rory opened the door and stepped from the car. “Good for you. Hope you land the deal.”

Stuart grinned. “Thanks, buddy. But I’m not doing anything you can’t do—if you’d forget about your cars and tend to business here.” He nodded at the Dodge. “That is a great-looking car, though.”

Rory pocketed the keys and ran his hand along the car’s engine-warm hood. “Yeah, well, I guess restoring old cars does for me what owning land does for my grandfather. To each his own.”

“Ri-i-ght. Try telling that to A.J. When you gonna take your rightful place around here as the ‘heir apparent’?”

Rory shook his head. “Don’t hold your breath.”

Stuart laughed. “If I were a betting man, I’d bet on A.J. But I don’t want to get involved in your family feud. I’m not taking sides, either.”

Stuart headed for his car, and Rory entered the building. The smell of wax and varnish from the first floor’s furniture store drifted along the hallway. He took the back stairs to the second floor where the offices of Dalton Properties were located. His grandfather’s middle-aged administrative assistant, Sheila Cobb, sat at her desk.

“Morning, Sheila.”

“Glad you’re here, Rory. He’s been wondering.” She tipped her head toward the door to A.J.’s office just as it opened and his grandfather stepped out.

At seventy, Alfred James Dalton was as fit and trim as he’d been in his younger years, thanks in part to heredity, but also to regular rounds of golf and visits to the local gym.

A.J. spread his feet apart and propped his hands on his hips. “About time you got here.”

Rory glanced at his wristwatch. “I know, I’m a little late, but with good reason—”

“Never mind. Sheila put some new proposals on your desk. Look ’em over, and then we’ll talk.”

“I’d just as soon talk now—about something else.”

A.J. raised his eyebrows. “Hmm, all right. I’ve got half an hour until my two o’clock arrives. Come on in.”

Once in his office, A.J. pointed to a straight chair. “Have a seat.”

Rory sat, while A.J. rounded his desk and sank into a black leather chair that always made Rory think of a throne. Unable to find a chair locally that suited him, A.J. had ordered this one over the internet. When it had arrived, the delivery guys had one heckuva time getting it up the narrow stairs. But they succeeded, and there it was, and A.J. fit into it as though it were made especially for him.

A.J. opened a file folder on his desk and idly rifled the papers inside. “So, what’s on your mind?” he said without looking up.

“I want to buy the Whitfield property.”

A.J. jerked to attention. “Yeah? You know I’ve tried for years to get Remy to sell, and she’s flatly refused. What makes you think you can change her mind?”

“I’m betting she needs the money, now that she’s living at Riverview. That place doesn’t come cheap.”

“Maybe Lacey is helping out.”

“Maybe. Still—”

A.J. rubbed his jaw. “Okay, let’s say you get her to sell. What do you see happening to the property?”

“First thing is tear down the house. It’s an eyesore, and I’m sick of it. Always reminding me—”

“You think tearing it down will erase your memory of what happened there?”

“It’ll go a long way to helping.”

A.J. closed the file folder and leaned forward. “And then what? A subdivision is what I see. Ought to be enough land for fifty or sixty houses.”

Rory shrugged. “Getting rid of the house is first and foremost. You hate the sight of that place as much as I do.”

“I’ll agree with that.”

His voice cracked, and his gaze strayed to the framed photo on his desk, a picture of him with his son, Alfred James Dalton Jr., better known as “Al Jr.” Their arms slung over each other’s shoulders, big grins on their faces, they stood in front of the Ross Building, one of their many projects.

“So, what do you think?” Rory asked.

“I need to know more. You plan to use Lacey to get to Remy? Heard you two were cozying up at Sophie and Hugh’s party.”

Rory clenched his jaw. “We weren’t ‘cozying up.’ We happened to find ourselves face-to-face and exchanged a few words, that’s all. As for using Lacey, ten years ago, you told me I couldn’t have anything more to do with her.”

“That was then. This is now. That property has sat there in a time warp, and I agree with you that enough is enough. You get it and you’ll have a big bonus.”

“All right—”