Silver River Secrets

“Wait a minute. I’m not letting you completely off the hook.”

Rory narrowed his eyes. “What?”

A.J. pointed a forefinger. “I need you to take more responsibility around here. This business will be yours someday, and you need to know how to run it. Stuart knows more about our operation than you do.”

Rory shook his head. They’d had this discussion before, many times. “I’m giving as much here as I can. I have my own business to run—”

A.J.’s mouth turned down. “Oh, yes. Cars again. Collecting ’em isn’t enough. You have to tinker with them, too.”

Rory pushed to the edge of his chair. “If we’re done here—”

A.J. put out a staying hand. “Not quite. Don’t forget that I own that prime piece of property Dalton’s Auto Repair sits on.”

“So?”

“So Silver River could use another motel.”

“Go ahead and sell the property.” Rory made a dismissive wave. “I can always relocate.”

“You could if you had the money. But you don’t. It’s all tied up in cars.”

Rory pressed his lips together. “Okay, we are done here.” He stood and strode to the door.

“Keep in mind what I said.”

“I’m sure you’ll be reminding me again,” Rory said as he went out the door. And again, and again.

“Get back to me ASAP about those proposals,” A.J. called after him.

* * *

IN HIS OFFICE, Rory hung his jacket on the coatrack and paused to look out the adjacent window. Instead of facing the street, like his grandfather’s office, Rory’s office looked out on the back parking lot. He didn’t care. Not even the best view in the world could make him want to be there.

His gaze landed on his Dodge, and a smile touched his lips. That was one fine car. Then he saw A.J.’s shiny new BMW, and his mouth thinned. No, his grandfather would never understand or share his love of the classics.

He turned away and crossed the room to his desk. His office had no personal touches. No photos, no certificates on the wall, nothing to identify him as the occupant. He hadn’t put down roots here, and he never would.

A.J. knew how to play the guilt game, though, making him think he should be grateful for the opportunity to take his father’s place in the company. If his father were still alive, Rory had no doubt the situation would be different. His father had understood Rory’s need to work with his hands, to create something. He was proud of Rory’s talent and never passed up an opportunity to brag about him.

But Al Jr. wasn’t alive. He was dead. Shot in the back on that fateful day when he went to see Norella Morgan.

Guilt gave way to anger. Anger at Rick Morgan, the hothead who pulled the trigger. And yet at the time, he’d wanted to stand by Lacey. He’d loved her, and planned to marry her.

But that was all over now.

Now, what he wanted most of all was to get rid of that house. Somehow, he’d find a way. Pushing aside his troubled thoughts, he sank into his desk chair. For a moment he only stared at the file folder lying there. Then he took a deep breath, opened the file and began reading.

* * *

“I VISITED THE graves at Restlawn this morning,” Lacey told Gram while they enjoyed a cup of tea on her patio. The afternoon sun had cleared the mountains and shone brightly from a cloudless sky. A brisk breeze swayed the cottonwood trees lining the riverbank. Still, the air was hot, even in the patio’s shade.

Gram smiled. “That was nice of you, dear. I’ve missed going myself.”

“I took some of Sophie and Hugh’s pansies to put in the vases, but there were already pansies in them.”

“Really?”

Gram’s tone sounded more matter-of-fact than surprised.

“Yes. Do you know who could be responsible?”

Gram kept her gaze on her teacup. “Does it matter?”

“Yes, it does. You know something. Come on, tell me.” Lacey leaned forward.

“Well...maybe the person was Claire Roche. Hank and Lena Nellon’s daughter.”

“Of Nellon’s Hardware?”

Gram nodded.

“Why would she leave flowers?”

Gram bit her lower lip and looked off toward the mountains.

“Gram—”

Placing her teacup on the wrought-iron table, Gram folded her arms. “Oh, all right,” she said in a grudging tone. “She liked Rick. He was a frequent customer at the store when she worked there. She was separated from her husband, Clint, at the time.”

“But Dad wouldn’t—”

Gram set her jaw. “You don’t know what your father would do. He was a murderer, wasn’t he?”

Lacy flinched. Her first impulse was to fling back, “No, he wasn’t!” Instead, she took a deep breath and said calmly, “Why didn’t this come out at the trial?”

“Why should it have? Claire’s crush had nothing to do with Rick shooting Al Jr.”

“Is Claire still in town?”

“Oh, yes. She and Clint got back together.” Gram shook a finger at Lacey. “But don’t you go asking her about the flowers. What does it matter who put them on the graves? That doesn’t change the fact that your father was a murderer, and if it hadn’t been for his crime, your mother would be alive today.”

“No, Gram, he wasn’t a murderer.”

“Oh, you always say that. You have no proof.”

Yes, she needed proof. But how to obtain that was still a mystery.

And yet, as she washed and dried their teacups in the apartment’s kitchenette, she thought about what Gram had said about Claire having a crush on her father. Had he returned her affection? She’d always thought her father was devoted to her mother, but maybe that hadn’t been the case. Even so, did that make him a murderer?