Overcome with emotion, I trip over my feet. Before I can respond, a loud blare interrupts the silence.
“Thanks, Leslie,” I say hurriedly. “I appreciate you calling . . . and what you said. Talk to you soon.” Hanging up, I realize the vehicle honking belongs to our old family friends, the Guthries. I raise my hand in greeting as it grinds to a halt, spewing gravel and a cloud of dust.
Grateful for the ride, since a blister’s rubbing against my dirty tennis shoes, I happily jump in the front seat to converse with Nancy Guthrie, the woman who threw the infamous Halloween shindigs. Retired, she’s on her way to meet some other ladies for bridge.
“I haven’t seen you for ages, Sib!” Nancy exclaims. “Oh dear.” She puts a hand to her mouth, aghast. “What happened to your face, honey?”
“I fell down those awful stairs.” I touch my face gingerly. “It looks worse than it feels.”
“You better ice that.” She helps me buckle up my seat belt. “Your family sure knows how to fall. I swear, you’re all a bunch of klutzes.”
I’m peeved at this comment, but I know she doesn’t mean any harm. “I know. I’m surprised I learned how to walk.”
“What brings you home, honey?”
“I figured I’d check on my mother,” I say. “Do you know if she ever has any visitors?”
“You mean, like a male friend?” She winks at me. “Not that I’m aware. I never see anyone parked in her driveway, least not from the highway. Poor thing, she’s had a rough go of it.” Nancy sighs. “Getting attacked like that in the middle of the night. This prison stuff has me on edge.”
“The county offered her money to sell her place,” I say. “What about you?”
“They haven’t approached us yet, and I hope they don’t. We certainly have no intention of selling.”
As we drive into town, I decide now is my chance to ask about Edward Pearson. Casually, I bring up his name.
A look of surprise registers across Nancy’s face. “Oh yes, Edward. He graduated from high school with my husband. Dropped off the face of the earth when he enlisted. One of the armed forces, I can’t remember which.”
“Did you know his wife or kids?”
“No. They never lived that close, probably a good half hour from here. It ended in a nasty divorce, and she moved with the kids to another state. Maybe New York? Or Rhode Island?”
“He died, right?”
“Tragically, yes. He had a lot of problems.” Nancy points to her head. “Up here, and well, they destroyed him. He killed himself, and he wasn’t that old. Maybe late thirties?” She muses, “I remember my husband said his ex-wife was distraught because she got nothing. Zip, zero, nothing.”
“From what?”
“His life insurance policy didn’t pay out because it was classified as a suicide. They had a nasty breakup, and after they were divorced, he cut her and the children out of his will.” Pursing her lips, Nancy says, “There was a rumor it wasn’t suicide, that maybe she poisoned him or someone else had it out for him. I guess he had left her at some point for another woman.” Nancy whispers, “I heard that he and Cindy Fletcher were an item.”
“What!” I say, shocked.
“Someone even told me years ago that Cindy drove into that tree on purpose because she was mortified everyone found out about it.” A guilty expression crosses Nancy’s face when she realizes who she’s speaking to. Quickly, she adds, “But that’s probably just a vicious rumor. You know how people talk.”
Turning to me, she says delicately, “The night your father died, supposedly Cindy and Jonathan had talked at church. I know a lot of people thought your mother had an affair, but I heard Cindy got a call from her friend Alicia, and she went to the farm to confront Jonathan because she thought he had something to do with Edward’s death. Edward died only a few weeks before Jonathan, and that in itself was suspicious.”
“Wow,” is all I can muster, my anxiety at an all-time high. My hands fidget nervously, desiring something to take the edge off.
Another car honks at us, and Nancy’s relieved by the interruption. She mentions it’s one of her friends from bridge club.
I lie when she asks where I want to be dropped off. I am in need of a drink, but I feel weird about asking her to drop me at the Bar on Main, so I choose the corner by the drugstore instead. I leave her after a quick hug, and when I glance over my shoulder, I’m relieved she isn’t watching what direction I go.
I walk the short distance to the bar. It’s not until I’m seated on a barstool in the dimly lit Bar on Main, finishing my third vodka cranberry, about to cash out, that I realize I don’t have any money. My wallet and purse are back at the house.
Murmuring an expletive, I debate who to call, as the options are limited. It’s either my mother or Fletch. I choose the latter, not wanting to wake my mother or ask her to pick me up from a bar. I’m sensitive about Jonathan’s alcoholism, and I don’t want a lecture. She certainly doesn’t need added stress from my drinking.
Scanning through my few contacts, I realize I don’t have Fletch’s number.
Tapping my fingers, I dial the station, praying he’s working a shift tonight. The operator says he is, so she patches me through to his phone. But when he answers, he doesn’t understand my jumbled words.
“Where are you?” he asks.
“Why do you have such a bad signal?” I whine.
“I don’t. It’s not that I can’t hear you.” He sighs. “You’re just not making sense.”
Now it’s my turn to ask where he is.
“The police station. You called me here, didn’t you?” He’s annoyed. “My shift started a couple hours ago.”
A pregnant
