Small-Town Secrets

“Give me a minute.” She pulled her lock box off the closet shelf and deposited her weapon inside. “What is it, honey?”

“I got to feed the parakeet today,” he told her.

Bree dropped onto the bed beside him and wrapped her arms around him.

“So it’s not so bad, after all?” she asked.

He gave a fleeting grin and shook his head. Before he could say anything, shouting erupted from the kitchen.

“I don’t give a—!” David yelled at his sister.

“Cuss jar,” Cody whispered, burrowing closer to his mother. “That’s a dollar word.”

Bree urged him onto his feet and together they walked back to the kitchen. She found brother and sister facing off in what she knew was only the beginning.

“Did you pay your dollar?” she asked her stepson.

David muttered something under his breath as he reached into his pocket, then pulled the cork top off a large earthenware jar with Cuss Jar engraved on the front.

“Add another dollar to it,” Bree instructed.

“He’s being a sh—!” Sara’s complaint was cut off by Bree’s upheld hand.

“Dollar from you, too. Want to go for two?”

“But I didn’t say it!”

“No, but you were ready to.” Bree pulled open a cabinet door and withdrew a bag of dog kibble. She filled the large plastic dish set by the refrigerator. Jinx wasted no time heading for his bowl. “Dare I ask if anything good happened today?”

Sara swiped her hand across her eyes. “They’re all lame at school,” she complained.

“You’re the one who’s lame,” David muttered.

When the kitchen timer dinged, Bree felt as if she was listening to the gong announcing the next round in a championship fight.

“David, drain the spaghetti and pour the sauce over it, please,” she directed. “Sara, you want to get the garlic bread out of the oven?”

Bree watched her stepson set the bowl on the table as they all sat down.

“It looks good,” she said cheerfully.

Her rule regarding no battles at the table held true. The children’s conversation was chillingly polite.

After dinner, Bree loaded the dishwasher while the three children disappeared into their rooms to do their homework.

She enjoyed the peace and quiet in the kitchen as she rinsed off dishes and placed them in the machine. For the next half hour, her only companion was Jinx, who lay sprawled on the floor.

“If I could get you to do the dishes, you’d be the perfect partner,” she informed the dog.

She should have known her quiet time wouldn’t last long.

“Mom!” Sara yelled. “Where’s my pink lace top? I want to wear it tomorrow.”

“Mommy!” Cody joined the chorus.

Bree threw up her hands. She looked down at the dog, who looked back at her with a quizzical expression on his face.

“Who are these children and why do they call me Mom?”

Chapter 3

Cole should have been working on next week’s column. He knew what he was going to write. Had already drafted it in his head. It would be easy enough to type the words into his laptop computer. He’d done it many times before.

Trouble was, he didn’t want to write his reflections on the new school year compared to his memories of school. Not when something in town had been brewing for quite a few years now. All he had to do was find some hard facts to back up what he’d only been able to suppose so far.

He was hoping Bree Fitzpatrick would be able to help him in that matter. A reminder of another story that needed to be written.

He stared at the bulky file folders and the contents he’d been accumulating for the past year. They were stacked haphazardly around the easy chair in his living room.

With all the research he’d done so far, why hadn’t he been able to find some hard proof that he could take to the authorities? Considering the stories he’d investigated and written in the past, this one should be a piece of cake. It had started late one night when he’d been feeling stuck on what to write about. He’d pulled out some of his uncle’s files, looking for ideas for his column. A sticky note attached to a file folder had caught his attention. Too many are dying.

Cole knew his uncle wouldn’t have written such a cryptic note unless there was something behind it. Sometimes, he feared that note had something to do with his death. So he’d done some digging of his own. And discovered, indeed, too many people were dying.

Even with the large senior citizen population in the county, the numbers were still too high for his peace of mind. He did what digging he could, but he still couldn’t find enough solid evidence to indicate foul play.

Cole’s gut told him a lot of these deaths weren’t accidents or from natural causes. Now he just had to find the connection.

He’d mentioned his suspicions to Roy once. The sheriff had listened and, when he was finished, explained that he could understand his concerns, but that Cole had to look at it from the sheriff’s point of view. What he was talking about sounded a hell of a lot like some sort of conspiracy theory. If Cole came up with some evidence Roy could follow up on, then he’d be happy to do whatever was necessary to investigate.

Cole figured Roy had mouthed all the right words and hoped he would move on to something else.

Cole did. After all, he had a newspaper to put out.

But it didn’t stop him from gathering information every chance he got. “Casual” talks with victims’ friends gave him insight into their lives that he couldn’t have gotten any other way. He’d drunk gallons of coffee and eaten pounds of homemade coffee cake while discovering bits and pieces about various residents that he kept filed away. Pieces of information that didn’t always make sense.

Sure, it was possible for someone suffering from inoperable cancer to succumb to a heart attack. No reason why someone diagnosed with impending blindness as a complication due to diabetes wouldn’t die from slipping in the shower. Some of the deaths Cole could have believed were suicide, but there was just something about them that didn’t add up in his mind.

Maybe he was looking for a story that wasn’t there. Seeing things that didn’t exist.

Except for Uncle Charlie’s notes.

Uncle Charlie who hadn’t had one fanciful bone in his body.

Cole leaned back in the easy chair that faced his big-screen television set. He had CNN on now, but the sound was muted. An open pizza box had two pieces of mushroom pizza remaining. A can of beer sat on the table by his elbow. For now, he was content to think about Bree.

Ordinarily, he kept his distance from a woman with children. Trying so hard to get her to go out with him wasn’t his usual modus operandi.

He didn’t consider himself good relationship material. A failed marriage had taught him all he needed to know—he wasn’t good in the long run. After his ex-wife told him his work came before anything else and she was tired of not meaning anything to him, he’d decided she was right.