Small-Town Secrets

“She said she was related to the Ventimiglia family.”

Gramma Rosi’s smile disappeared. “You must be mistaken,” she said. “That family died out. They’ll do no more harm.”

“Harm?” Yolanda said.

“What did she look like? What did she want?”

Quickly, Yolanda described the woman and mentioned the book she’d asked after.

“Phhh,” said Rosi, still frowning. “Probably some reporter thinking there was a story. The Ventimiglias used to own just about everything in these parts. If she appears again, you find me.”

“But—”

“Just do it,” Gramma Rosi said.

With that, she went inside. Yolanda watched her climb the wide stairs, slowly and stiffly.

“I’ve never seen her like that,” Yolanda remarked.

“I’m curious, too, now. Let me call GG,” Adam offered, setting his tool chest on the porch. “If there’s a Ventimiglia relative still living and hiding somewhere, she’d know.”

For a moment Yolanda thought about saying no. Her grandmother had been so upset. But why?

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt.”

“They’re about the same age, your grandmother and mine.”

Which meant that Adam’s great-grandmother Loretta, who wouldn’t let him add great to her title and so was called GG, was nearing ninety.

“She was a Realtor for all those years,” Adam said. “What she doesn’t know about Scorpion Ridge isn’t worth knowing.” He fetched his cell phone from one of his many pockets and soon was busy trying to get the lowdown on the Ventimiglias.

Yolanda sat down on the top step, wrapping her arms around her knees and listening.

“GG says she thinks the family has died out, too,” he reported. “And she’s never heard of a Chester. GG wants to know if you’re sure the name was Chester and not Richard.”

“I’m sure.”

“Guess neither of you noticed the plaque on the courthouse in the middle of town,” Adam teased before returning to the call. He paid rapt attention to Loretta, nodding exaggeratedly before sharing, “The last Ventimiglia, not named Chester, left decades ago, more than six.” He listened some more, finally saying to Yolanda, “GG says they were not a nice family, and everyone was glad to see them go.”

“Well, your great-grandma and my gramma agree. Hmmm, why’d they leave?” Yolanda wondered.

But Adam was still intently listening to Loretta. “GG says she’s not heard the name Ventimiglia in a long time. She’s sure you’re mistaken about the name.”

“No, I’m not. And the name sure got a rise out of my gramma.”

Adam shrugged and handed Yolanda the phone.

“The Ventimiglias are long gone,” Loretta Snapp said, her voice guarded. “Died out, and I don’t recall there being a Chester. But my grandson says his name is on the courthouse wall. Adam’s always had a good memory. It’s been years since I’ve even thought about the family.”

“Did you know any of the Ventimiglias?” Yolanda asked.

“The person Adam described sounds like Ivy, but she died a long time ago. Why, she’d be almost ninety if she were alive.”

“Sorry,” Yolanda said, thinking that Loretta hadn’t really answered the question. “And she didn’t have any children?”

“Oh, she lived the life she deserved, went off to college, but never married or had any children.”

“Are there any distant cousins or such?”

“Not that I’m aware of. The family left town when I was still a teenager. It caused a bit of a scandal.”

“Any idea what the scandal was?”

“No.”

“So my elderly visitor was probably somebody doing a bit of research on town history,” Yolanda decided.

“If you want to know about old families, ask me about mine. I was born a Munro. I married a Snapp, who’ve lived in Scorpion Ridge for over a hundred years. I can also tell you about the Moores and the Sheldons and—”

“That’s all right,” Yolanda said.

Adam held out his hand, and after thanking Loretta, Yolanda returned his phone. He said goodbye and hurried down the steps to his ancient minivan. He was the only guy she knew who willingly drove one. It had always been full of paints, brushes and old towels.

It perfectly represented his vagabond life and reminded Yolanda that she’d only be able to rely on him temporarily.

Heading back toward the house, Yolanda couldn’t help but feel that Adam’s grandmother, who apparently was well versed in the whole history of Scorpion Ridge and its oldest families, knew more than she was telling.

* * *

SNAPP’S TAE KWON DO studio was in a strip mall nestled between a nail salon and a doughnut shop. It would celebrate fifteen years of service in a few months. In some ways the studio was a blessing. It gave Adam’s autistic brother, Andy, a productive way to earn a living. But it had also been a huge change for the Snapps. When Adam was eleven, his father had walked away from a six-figure white-collar job and purchased the studio. The Snapps had gone from buying whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted, to spending on a budget.

And Adam had been angry. He’d liked having a television in his room, being able to get any video game he wanted and the best art supplies.

It had been the beginning of his strained relationship with his father. Adam had just wanted a voice, to be heard, but his dad had never seemed to want to listen.

This afternoon the parking area in front of their studio was fairly empty, as the Scorpion Ridge schools didn’t get out for another hour, and the two morning Tae Kwon Do classes, one for tots and the other for seniors, had ended before Adam rolled out of bed.

“Hey,” his mother greeted him as he stepped into the foyer. She was at the front desk taking advantage of the lull by counting out fliers to be delivered to the local schools and anywhere kids or any potential client might be found.

“Andy feeling better?” Adam asked.

“No, he’s been in his room all day. Doesn’t want to come out.”

“Still don’t know what triggered the mood swing?”

“Not a clue.”

Andy was a creature of habit, a connoisseur of routine. If his day got out of whack, he closed down.