Small-Town Secrets

Which probably meant Adam’s grandmother was already involved. She’d been careful with every cent, but still couldn’t have that much to spare. More than ever, Adam wished he had the money he’d earned and the muse that Stacey had taken when she left. He’d been foolish. And now he realized the cost.

“How much will the surgery cost?”

“Between medical bills and living expenses...at least twenty thousand dollars. But I don’t want you to worry about that. The operation’s been scheduled for a few weeks from now.”

“You gonna be able to get around okay until then?” Already Dad was missing work, sitting down a lot when he used to always be on the move. He wasn’t eating much, either.

“I plan on giving it my all.”

“Andy know?”

“Not yet.”

Adam wasn’t sure he wanted to be in the room when Mom told his big brother about the change in his routine. Older by just two minutes, Andy was brilliant, which sometimes made living with his disorder harder. People started to expect him to be brilliant in everything, which was impossible.

Looking around his father’s office, Adam took in the pictures. They were mostly of Dad and Andy. Andy was shorter than Adam, coming up to Adam’s chest. He was thicker, too, but not by much. Tae Kwon Do was to thank for his fairly slender build because Andy loved to eat. They both had the same brown, unruly hair, the same nose, same smile. Adam was a bit more prone to whiskers, though. Adam was in a few of the photos. He and his brother both were featured in the one where his dad had been painting the words Snapp’s Studio onto the building. Each brother held a paintbrush and was looking at the camera, both innocent still, not realizing how much time and energy this new endeavor would take.

Adam had gone the whole route, all the way to black belt. He’d competed and done well. But in about eighth grade, he’d backed off, realizing that Tae Kwon Do was something his brother needed more.

And really, Adam had his art. Snapp’s Studio was awash in murals. It had been Adam’s first blank wall and the one time when his father hadn’t shook his head at the waste of time.

“Are you going to ask—” Adam began.

“GG already said she’d move in, too, while we’re gone.”

“Did you talk her into teaching the senior session?”

His dad laughed. For all their angst, Dad’s disappointment and Adam’s disregard for “going into a profession where you can make a living,” they shared one trait. Both fiercely loved and protected their family, especially Andy.

Adam wondered if the bond between him and his brother would have been as strong if Andy hadn’t had autism. He doubted it.

When Adam was in fifth grade, his mother had told him that having an autistic brother made the family more of a unit, working together for the good of the whole. Andy didn’t get other people’s jokes, often said the wrong thing and liked routine. He was perfect at Snapp’s Studio, though. He’d laugh at the little kids’ jokes no matter if they were funny or not. In turn, the kids didn’t notice or care when he said the wrong thing. And, as long as the kids tried to follow him, that was routine enough. Best of all for them, he clapped no matter how the students performed.

“You’d need to move back home,” his dad said.

Adam nodded. He really liked living in the groundskeeper’s cabin over at Bridget’s Animal Adventure. It was off the beaten path and felt right. His best memories were there: learning how to make it on his own, realizing that he could make a living off his art. Best of all, he could paint there and leave his supplies where they lay. The house he’d grown up in hadn’t offered that option. It was a “clean up when you’re done” kind of atmosphere where get-er-done meant get-er-done in one setting. Most of Adam’s projects took a week if not more.

“I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”

“I might be able to handle things without GG needing to move in,” Adam offered.

Loretta was in her late eighties and still sold realty. Granted, those transactions were few and far between and mostly just for dedicated clients—most as old as she was. But she had her own routine, and it wouldn’t jibe with Andy’s.

“We appreciate it, Adam. You can make the guest room your own,” his father offered.

But it had been a long time since Adam had felt anything was his own.

* * *

CHECKING HER WATCH, Yolanda decided to finish stocking the last few rows of the children’s room. The decor there was the opposite of the history and nonfiction room. The room had not a shred of seriousness in its atmosphere; instead, it was bright, colorful and inviting.

She’d already spent way too much time investigating what was probably a harmless old woman who simply wanted to read about the history of a town her forefathers helped create. With that in mind, Yolanda went looking for the books she’d left waiting on a shelf in the middle of the second floor.

Two Ramona books were on the floor. Yolanda picked them up. Their author, Beverly Cleary, had started life as a librarian before writing some of the best children’s books. Five-year-old Yolanda had begged for a chapter of Henry andBeezus each night.

Two books remained on the shelf where Yolanda had placed them earlier.

Two?

Yolanda frowned. She only remembered carrying three books in the series. Two were on the floor; only one was supposed to be on the shelf.

“How funny,” she whispered as she picked up the top book, which was clearly not intended for the children’s area. It was dark blue, dusty and had faded embossed gold lettering proclaiming the title Stories of Scorpion Ridge, Arizona.

Unease followed Yolanda as she walked toward the history and nonfiction room. She really wished that Adam hadn’t left. She was sure this book hadn’t been in her hands this morning when she’d been interrupted by the old woman. The book certainly hadn’t made its way to the shelf by itself.

Someone else had been in her used bookstore.

Or perhaps the old woman had found the book—without Yolanda noticing?—and then realized it was the wrong one.

Yolanda might have chosen to forget the whole incident if she hadn’t been a stickler for details. Inside the cover page a name was written. Black ink, perfectly formed letters, all caps, looking almost like one word.

CHESTER VENTIMIGLIA

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_7b2a851a-bc80-5898-bdc1-71e8f7ccb1cd)

TUESDAY MORNING ADAM’S phone sounded way too early. He’d always preferred to wake up when his body wanted to wake up rather than when the alarm said it was time.

Nowadays he woke up a lot earlier. Mostly because he wasn’t painting way into the night.

“I’m awake,” he muttered into the phone.

“I’m trying to find Adam Snapp,” a voice said.

“You found him.”

“I’m William Woodhull Huckabee. I’m just outside of town. I own—”

“You own all the ostriches.”

Huckabee chuckled. “That would be me. Huckabee’s Harem is about to expand. We’re trying to bring more visitors to our door. I’ve seen your work around BAA, and I wondered if you’d be willing to do a mural for us?”

“No,” Adam said, swallowing hard. “No, I’m not doing murals anymore. But I can make a referral.”

Huckabee paused before saying, “No, I don’t want a referral. I was hoping to do a bit of tie-in with BAA. After all, they don’t have ostriches, and when we get visitors to town, having two places to visit is a plus. If both attractions have a similar look, we can maybe combine our advertising. I can make it worth your while. What do you usually charge?”

He’d been paid twenty-five thousand, plus room and board, for the Wildrose job. From start to finish, it had taken six months. Since then, he’d had three more offers, all in the same price range. He’d turned the jobs down and come home with an almost empty checking account.

Huckabee’s Harem, however, was not a twenty-five thousand dollar kind of establishment. And Adam, still licking wounds that weren’t healing, couldn’t take the job. Didn’t matter the payoff.