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“So I thought we could have lunch and catch up,” Bliss suggested a few days later. Katie, working at the office, balanced the receiver between her shoulder and ear.
Bliss, home from her short honeymoon, was calling from her cell phone and still sounding breathlessly in love. She and Mason had just gotten back to Oregon and were living at Cawthorne Acres, the ranch John Cawthorne had called his own until his marriage to Brynnie. Brynnie had insisted he give up ranching for fear of his having another heart attack, and he’d reluctantly sold the ranch to Mason and Bliss. John and his wife would move into town as soon as Brynnie’s house was remodeled to suit them. Meanwhile, Bliss and Mason shared the place with them.
“Sounds great.” Katie stretched the cord of her phone around the computer monitor glowing on her desk and reached into a drawer for her pen. Her cubicle, or “office,” as it was sometimes referred to, was situated in the middle of a huge room that was divided by soundproof barriers that didn’t quite do the job. The conversation of other reporters, the clacking of computer keys, even noise from the street filtered through the maze of desks.
“Let’s meet at Claudia’s at one, and I’ll call Tiffany to see if she can join us.”
“I’ll be there,” Katie promised, making a note to herself. She had an interview with Octavia Nesbitt, Tiffany’s grandmother and president of the local garden club, this morning; then she wanted to talk with the police department and Jarrod about the Isaac Wells case.
Each day, she’d riffled eagerly through her mail, hoping for another missive from the mystery person, but there had been nothing at work or at home. She
’d even checked her mailbox at the cottage, on the off chance that the mail hadn’t been forwarded. No such luck.
“Face it, Kinkaid,” she grumbled to herself, “you’ve been led down the garden path.” Lately, it seemed, her life had been bedlam. The move had been exhausting, but finally, most of her possessions seemed to have found new places of their own. Josh’s ankle was fine, and he was back at soccer practice, but the car was still a problem; she’d gone to the local dealer and hadn’t been able to locate a used vehicle that suited her. Nor did there seem to be the perfect car in the “Autos for Sale” part of the classified advertisements in the paper. She was still using her father’s Jeep, and though John assured her that it was better she be driving the rig than it be gathering dust in the garage, she wasn’t comfortable without her own set of wheels. Her convertible, if not all that reliable, had been an old friend. She punched out Jarrod’s number with the eraser end of her pencil and prayed that she wouldn’t have to leave a message if he was out.
Her oldest half brother had the decency to answer on the fourth ring.
“Hello?” His voice was curt, all business.
“It’s me,” she said. “I just wanted to thank you for helping with the move.”
“No problem. And I will fix the screen door at the cottage. I promise.”
“Good. I’ll hold you to it. Now, what’s new with the Isaac Wells case?”
“Ah, the real reason you called.”
She grinned. “You always could read me like a book.”
“Why don’t you tell me about Mr. Wells, Katie. You’re the one getting the letters.”
“Letter. Singular. No more.”
“Good. You know I don’t like you involved in that mess,” he admitted, not for the first time. “Stick with writing about the schools, and recipes and obituaries before your name is in one.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m serious, Katie. You know the police have been talking to Ray Dean, and he’s bad news.”
Katie knew everything there was to know about Ray Dean, his estranged wife and their two sons. Ray was a criminal, convicted of theft, burglary and suspected of being involved in other crimes that had never been solved. But he’d never been caught with a weapon or had anything to do with violent crimes. Nothing like kidnapping. Or murder.
“Just tell me you’ll keep me posted,” Katie nagged and heard her brother swear under his breath.
“I don’t know what good will come of it.”
“Only give my career the biggest shot in the arm of its life.”
“Didn’t I stupidly promise that if I find out anything,” he said reluctantly, “I’d let you know?”
“I believe the exact words were that you’d give me ‘an exclusive.’”
“You got it.”
“Great,” she said without a lot of enthusiasm, as time was ticking by and she was afraid this case might just end up as an unsolved mystery.
For the next few minutes they talked about the twins, their mother and Josh, then hung up. Grabbing her recorder, notepad and purse, she flew out the door to where her father’s Jeep was parked. The rig was hot, having sat in the sun all day, and Katie made a mental note to find another vehicle. She hated being obligated to anyone, even the man who had sired her.
Katie spent the next two hours interviewing Octavia Nesbitt. With honey-gold-colored hair that was teased to stand away from her small head, oversize glasses, and a big, toothy smile, Octavia was one of Bittersweet’s leading citizens. In three-inch heels she was barely over five feet, and Katie had never known her not to be dressed as if she were going to the opening of a Broadway play. At eighty, Octavia had the energy of a thirty-year-old, and she wasn’t satisfied until she’d walked Katie through her house—the old Reed estate—and had given her a guided tour of her rose garden and greenhouse.
