A Family at Last

“That would be great.” The offer more than compensated for any inconvenience the rumor had caused.

With her efficient help, he’d thinned out the crammed waiting room by lunchtime. The receptionist, Estelle’s daughter Patsy, had persuaded others to return that afternoon or the following day.

Just as Chris was finally finishing, Jenni had dropped this bombshell. He’d have to serve on call a couple of extra nights per week, treat additional young patients who might otherwise have continued to see the family practitioner, and trespass further onto Karen’s territory.

“I’m happy to help,” Chris told Jenni. “I feel a bit intimidated, though.”

“Trial by fire,” she sympathized. “It seems we all go through it in Downhome, one way or another. When I first arrived, I tangled with Ethan about a patient of mine. In fact, at one point he threatened to arrest me.”

“He can’t have been serious!” Especially since the police chief had fallen in love with her.

“Dead serious,” she assured him. “But we worked it out. As for Will, he turned the whole town upside down when he got Leah Morris pregnant. She’s due next month, by the way.”

“I saw them at church. She looks radiant.” He remembered Leah from high school as a rather shy girl. She’d blossomed, no doubt thanks in part to her recent marriage to Will. “I have to admit that consulting at the nursing home could be a challenge. I don’t have a lot of expertise at geriatrics.”

“You can always consult with my backup in Mill Valley, Dr. Connor Hardison,” Jenni replied. “The most important thing is to catch problems in the early stages. Prevention is important with old folks because of their lowered resistance.”

“As with babies,” he said. “But at least babies don’t tell me I’m too young to be a doctor.” He’d received that teasing comment a couple of times on Saturday. “I enjoyed my geriatrics rotation during my internship, so I won’t be completely at a loss.”

He just hoped his presence wouldn’t exacerbate matters with Karen. Despite their earlier camaraderie, she’d given him the cold shoulder in church yesterday. Chris supposed she didn’t want the whole town discussing how chummy the two of them had become.

He still hadn’t run into Barry. According to his grandmother, the newspaper editor never set foot in church except for weddings and funerals. During the trial, even before a verdict came in, the then-minister had attacked the two young men from the pulpit with such vehemence that both the Lowells and the McRays had walked out.

From the clinic hallway, Chris heard cheery greetings underscored by a masculine voice. Judging by the way Jenni brightened, it was no surprise when Ethan Forrest entered the lunchroom. Although he usually wore a business suit, his dark blue uniform indicated he must have gone out on patrol this morning.

A hearty, gregarious man, he greeted Chris with a handshake and words of welcome. Since they’d met several times before, it felt almost like a reunion.

“Eating?” he asked his wife as he slipped an arm around her. “I thought we were having lunch.”

“Not until one o’clock.” She broke off to plant a kiss on his mouth. “Mmm. I don’t mind your being early, though.”

Wordlessly, he pointed to the wall clock, which indicated 12:55. Jenni regarded it in astonishment. “Oh, my gosh!” She checked her watch. “Must be a dead battery. It stopped an hour and a half ago.”

“How did you keep track of your appointments?”

“I don’t have to.” She beamed at her husband. “Yvonne does it for me.” Yvonne was her nurse, an efficient young woman with platinum hair. “I’ve got to finish some notes before we eat.”

“No problem. I’ll wait here.” Ethan’s fond gaze followed his wife out of the room. To Chris he said, “I pegged her as a blond bimbo the first time we met. Good thing Karen and Olivia Rockwell outvoted me.”

“I’m glad to hear I’m not the only doctor who wasn’t a unanimous choice.” From the refrigerator, Chris fetched a sandwich he’d bought at the diner that morning. “Sorry to eat in front of you, but I’m pressed for time.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Ethan took a chair facing him across one of the tables. “Actually, I wanted to alert you in case you have to treat my son, Nick, while we’re gone. He’s diabetic. My mother’s taking care of him and she’s familiar with his needs, but with a six-year-old, you never can tell what might happen.”

“I recall your mentioning him during the interview.” The boy had an insulin pump, which made shots unnecessary. However, it was important to pay attention to his blood-sugar levels. The automatic dose could cause problems if the boy neglected to eat regularly. “Can I see him in the clinic before you go? It might be a wise precaution.”

“You bet,” Ethan responded. “He’ll still visit his medical team in Nashville, but I’m delighted to have a pediatrician nearby. By the way, if there’s anything I can do to help you settle in, please ask.”

“Actually, there might be.” This seemed the perfect opening for a touchy subject. “I’m concerned about a rumor Barry Lowell may be spreading.”

“You mean his crackpot theory that you sneaked back and committed murder?” Ethan dismissed it with a snort. “He filled me in. Don’t worry. He has no evidence, and there’s zero danger of my reopening a fifteen-year-old case based on speculation.”

“Other folks might not be so objective.” Chris downed a bite of sandwich before adding, “I’d hate for it to harm the clinic.”

“I doubt that’ll happen,” Ethan said. “He mentioned this idea to me privately. I don’t think he’s broadcasting it.”

Chris wondered what sort of person Barry had become, other than attempting to sic the police on an old friend simply for testifying to the truth. Prison must have been a painful experience. He hoped it hadn’t warped the man entirely.

“How do you get along with him?” he asked Ethan. “I mean, he does edit the paper, so you must butt heads occasionally.”

The chief grinned. “He tries his best to drum up controversial stories about the police, and I withhold my press releases until five minutes before his deadline. We enjoy driving each other crazy.”

Chris appreciated the man’s sense of humor. “Sounds like you have an interesting relationship.”

“I don’t consider him a danger to the community.” Ethan’s expression sobered. “But if he threatens you, let me know. While I’m gone, Captain Ben Fellows will be in charge.” Ben, who also doubled as part-time pastor, was married to Estelle, the nurse practitioner. In such a small town, everyone seemed to be related to someone.

“I’ll do that.” The mere mention of danger chilled Chris’s mood. “Do you really think Barry will keep pushing this?”

“Frankly, I hope that once he gets over your arrival, he’ll decide to move on with his life,” the chief said.

“Me, too.” But the teenage Barry hadn’t envisioned himself stuck in a small town, editing his parents’ weekly, Chris knew. Perhaps, by trying to clear his own name, moving on with his life was exactly what Barry was trying to do.

A few minutes later, Ethan departed with his wife. As Chris reviewed their discussion, the idea of scouring police reports to confirm his innocence seemed unnecessary.

Maybe he should leave the whole business alone. As Ethan had said, once Barry adjusted to Chris’s presence in the community, he might decide it was time to quit raking over the past.

That would be a blessing for everyone.

BARRY SLAMMED A BOX of advertising flyers onto the front counter of the Gazette. It was Saturday, past the deadline for Tuesday’s paper, but he’d come in to handle some of the other publishing tasks that kept the business profitable. “It’s bad enough he’s wormed his way into the clinic. Does Mom have to take his side, too?”

“She didn’t take his side.” Karen had been fighting this battle with her brother ever since she’d brought Renée home for dinner last night. “She just wants you to be happy.”

“I realize that.” He glanced with embarrassment at the dent he’d put in a corner of the cardboard box. “I hate to see her upset. Chris’s return has made the whole situation worse.”

“I don’t think she’s upset.” Realizing how tense he’d become, Karen dropped the subject and went back to typing the Community Center schedule into the computer. The Gazette had needed a little extra typing, so she’d offered to do it.

Since they shared their family’s two-story house, the siblings frequently came to each other’s aid. Barry, who’d learned carpentry in prison, helped out around the nursing home and Karen assisted the paper not only with typing but also occasional bookkeeping. Plus, as the owner of a one-quarter interest in the business, she had a personal stake.

Their two-person family would feel more complete if their mother would move back in with them, but she preferred the Tulip Tree. Karen could see her point: she enjoyed twenty-four-hour nursing care, as well as a lot of friends, and, of course, her daughter’s proximity.

Usually, Renée avoided the subject of Barry’s quest. But at Friday night’s dinner, she’d spontaneously brought up the subject of Chris McRay.

“I always liked him,” she’d told Barry. “Neither of you boys intended to harm anyone that night, and events must have been confusing. While I agree with you that the whole story has yet to emerge, that doesn’t mean he was lying.”

Barry had had to struggle with himself to avoid an argument, Karen could see. Thank goodness Renée had dropped the subject.

Much as she loved her son, she didn’t fully understand how much he’d suffered. After prison, during his years of wandering, he hadn’t wanted to burden his widowed mother, so Karen had become the person he relied on. During long phone conversations, it was she to whom he’d spilled his despair and who had sometimes spent hours talking him out of the black moods that threatened to overwhelm him.

When Renée’s accident had brought him back to Downhome, Karen had watched him face down the skeptics and struggle to run the Gazette. Several times, when doors had been slammed in his face and subscriptions had been dropped, he’d nearly given up, but she wouldn’t let him. Eventually, the prejudice had eased, and the readers, eager for local news and drawn by his lively reporting, had returned.

But Barry still had his dark moments, his inner demons. Karen could never abandon him, because he needed her.

“I’ve got to deliver these flyers to Archie Rockwell.” He picked up the box. “How much more typing do you have?”

“I’m done.” Karen knew he wanted to lock up, and besides, she had finished. “I’ll go with you.”

“Great. Thanks for the help, by the way.” Barry cast her one of his rare smiles. Noting how it transformed him, she wished other people could see how handsome he looked. It was too bad that her brother’s brooding temperament and the prison-inflicted scar on his forehead frightened off the eligible women in town. Falling in love might be exactly what he needed.

On the other hand, love didn’t always work out, she reflected, and logged off the system.

They set out into the crisp March sunshine. The Gazette’s wood-sided office lay adjacent to the Green and across a cul-de-sac from the Café Montreal. Beneath a striped awning, customers enjoyed the outdoor eating, their voices creating a convivial hum.

“Maybe I’ll grab a bite on the way home,” Barry was saying, when he stopped cold.

With a sinking sensation, Karen saw why. In the playground ahead, Chris McRay whizzed down a slide with a gleeful toddler on his lap.

Hitting the bottom, he scooped up the child. “What a brave boy!”

“Again!” the tot demanded.

“No, me!” interjected another youngster.

“So much for the old saying about kids and dogs being good judges of character,” Barry muttered.

Apparently catching sight of them, Chris set down the little boy and brushed off his slacks, then assumed a watchful air.

Karen could feel her brother trying to decide between ignoring the interloper and confronting him. “Better to shake hands and get it over with,” she advised. “You two are bound to meet sooner or later.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to acknowledge him,” Barry retorted.

For his own sake, Karen thought, he had to stop making a show of his resentment. “What are you going to do if you have to write a story that involves him?”

“That’s different. I always behave like a professional on the job.” He shifted the box. “You’re right, though. There’s no point in ducking him.”

“Good.” And just in time, for Chris was moving toward them.

“I don’t intend to leave him in any doubt about where we stand.”

“That isn’t what I meant!” Karen hoped they weren’t going to quarrel in public. Still, better here than at the nursing home. She’d hate for Renée and Mae Anne to witness an argument.

Nearing them, Chris opened his mouth to speak. Barry raised a hand to stop him. “Don’t bother.”

“Don’t bother to say hello?” Chris halted, apparently unaware that he had a twig stuck in his hair from playing with the children. Karen felt an irrational urge to pluck it out.

“If you think we can be friends, you’re wasting your time.” Bitterness coarsened Barry’s voice. “We’re not even acquaintances. Or anything.”

Chris regarded him steadily. “How can we not be anything? Strangers, enemies—we have to be something.”

“Why’d you decide to grace Downhome with your presence—so you could gloat?” Barry’s rage crackled across the intervening half-dozen feet. “You covered your crime pretty well, but you weren’t satisfied to get away with it, were you? No, you had to come rub my face in it.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I didn’t commit a crime and you know it, or you ought to.”

Fists tightened at Barry’s side. “I’m going to nail you if it’s the last thing I do.”

Chris’s eyes narrowed at the ferocity of the response. “This idea about my killing Mr. Anglin is crazy.”

He probably didn’t realize that the implication of mental illness was a sore point with Barry because of his depression. For a moment, Karen feared her brother would lose what remained of his self-restraint. Suppose he physically attacked Chris and got arrested? With his felony record, he’d probably be sent back to prison.

Fortunately, Barry hadn’t entirely lost his judgment. “You always were good at playing to the crowd,” he retorted coldly. “Anybody’d think I’m the one who wronged you. Look at him, Karen. There’s a man who can deceive you so smoothly you won’t know you’ve been taken in until it’s too late.”

Yes, she’d seen that side of Chris. Yet there was nothing cold or calculating about the dismay on his face.

“You think you can prove I killed Norbert Anglin?” the young doctor asked skeptically.

“If I have to do it with my dying breath,” Barry answered, “yes.”

“For Karen’s sake, I hope that won’t be soon.” Chris shook his head. “My family left Downhome out of consideration for your folks, and I’ve stayed away for the same reason. I’m sorry for what you’ve been through, because I know you didn’t mean to lash out as hard as you did. But as for the rest, you’re in denial and it’s time you got over it.”

“I’m glad we’ve got this out in the open,” Barry growled. “So we don’t have to pretend to get along. There’s nothing I hate worse than hypocrisy.”

With that, he renewed his grip on the flyers and departed so rapidly he left Karen behind. She stole a glance at Chris’s face.

Among the warring emotions, she saw sadness. If only she could offer some reassurance, but what was there to say?

Aware of the watchers at the café, she hurried after her brother. Everyone had better understand that Barry could count on his sister’s loyalty, one hundred percent.

“THESE DATE BACK TO before we computerized our records.” Lieutenant Mark O’Bannon dropped a stack of dog-eared reports on the interrogation-room table. “Good luck finding what you want.”

“I appreciate your letting me look through these.” With Ethan on his honeymoon, Chris hadn’t been certain what sort of response he might receive when he’d walked into the police station a few minutes ago.

Barry’s declaration of war had completely changed his mind about reviewing the facts of the case. He most definitely would; he needed all the ammunition he could get.

“Amy was happy to pull them.” Mark, a straightforward young man in his late twenties whom Chris remembered vaguely from their younger years, was engaged to Amy Arroyo, who doubled as both the chief’s secretary and as records clerk. He was also Rosie Otero’s son. “We’re glad to help Maria Wilhelmina’s doctor.”

Being the town’s pediatrician brought unexpected perks, Chris reflected. “I don’t mean to take advantage. But as I mentioned, Barry seems determined to smear my name. Frankly, I’ve forgotten most of the details of what happened, if I ever knew them.”

As a key witness, he’d been barred from the courtroom during much of the proceedings. The newspaper, at that time edited by Barry’s parents, had printed only the most basic information, and afterward, Chris had wanted to put the whole matter behind him, not to dwell on it.

“Knock yourself out,” Mark rejoined cheerfully and went about his duties.

Chris began plowing through the stack of paper. Face sheets, diagrams, the coroner’s report—most of it was new to him.

As he studied the pages, memories intervened. That summer before college, Chris had been working at the grocery store when one day, to his astonishment, farmer Norbert Anglin stalked in and accused him of flirting with his wife.

Although he’d exchanged a few pleasantries with Amelia as he’d bagged her groceries, that was the extent of their acquaintance. When Chris protested, Norbert called him a liar. Furious, Chris tried to defend himself, only to be shouted down.

The curmudgeonly storeowner, Beau Johnson, threatened to fire Chris for arguing with a customer. At Norbert’s insistence, the young man was forced to apologize in front of a store full of customers.

The injustice stung. Chris might have left it at that, but when Barry heard about it, he urged that they play a revenge prank on the farmer.

The boys sneaked onto the farm one night a week later to let chickens out of the coop. Suddenly, floodlights activated. As they scrambled to flee the barnyard, Anglin had born down on them with a pitchfork.

In retrospect, it was lucky he hadn’t gone for his shotgun, but he’d meant business with those tines. Barry had grabbed a shovel and fought back, whacking the man hard enough to send him reeling.

They’d bolted over a fence and ran for dear life. In the haste and confusion, they lost sight of each other. Chris waited in his car, parked out of sight, for ten or fifteen minutes before Barry showed up. Scraped and out of breath, he claimed to have run the wrong way in the darkness.

Heading home, they heard sirens. Later, horrified to learn the farmer had died of his injuries, Chris had gone to the police accompanied by his father, who was a lawyer, and told his story.

The county district attorney had charged Barry in the death. Determined to tell the truth, which he believed would exonerate his friend, Chris had testified that he’d seen only one blow connect and that Anglin had attacked first.

However, according to the coroner, three blows had landed. A couple of witnesses, neither of whom had a criminal record, had testified to seeing Barry sneaking back a short time later. The implication was that he’d decided to finish the job.

One witness was a homeless man, Lou Bates, whom a motorcycle accident had left with only one arm and a pronounced limp. He didn’t seem physically capable of launching such a vicious assault, nor did he have a motive. The other was a farmhand, a man named Hank Lincoln. He was returning to the bunkhouse from church when he claimed to have spotted Barry, wearing a blue shirt and moving in a suspicious manner. Hank had hurried to the main house to alert his boss.

Discovering that Norbert was out, he’d accompanied Mrs. Anglin to the coop, where they’d made the grisly discovery of her husband’s battered body. She’d testified that Hank showed no sign of dirt or disarray when he’d first arrived, and fellow choir members had confirmed his alibi, along with the time of his departure.

The case must have seemed open-and-shut. In addition to Chris’s testimony, the fingerprints found on the shovel’s handle had mostly belonged to Barry, with a few of Anglin’s and a couple of smudged partials from Hank, who’d used the implement as part of his duties.

Barry’s notoriously hot temper and history of getting into fistfights at school had fueled the D.A.’s portrait of him as a dangerous young man. The jury took only a few hours to return a manslaughter conviction.

Chris stared down at the reports. Despite the neat way the story fell together, aspects of it troubled him.

Although he hadn’t been able to find Barry immediately after they fled, at the time Chris had believed the two witnesses must have seen him wandering around, lost, not deliberately returning to the chicken coop. As for the three blows, he’d assumed Barry’s flailing had simply connected more times than he’d realized.

However, the coroner’s account made it clear that two powerful blows had struck the farmer as he lay on the ground, presumably dazed from the first impact. It looked as if someone had intentionally caved in the man’s head.

Barry had never been malicious. The possibility that Anglin might identify them wasn’t nearly enough motivation for him to commit such a brutal act.

Furthermore, the police had recovered several blue fibers that they’d never been able to trace. Since the evidence didn’t match Barry’s shirt or anything else found during their searches, they’d assumed the threads had come from a feedbag label or some other innocuous source. But had they?

Maybe Barry really hadn’t killed Norbert Anglin, even unintentionally. If someone else had landed those blows, it would explain why he was casting about for someone to blame.

His chest squeezing, Chris weighed the situation. Had the police made a mistake in clearing the other two men? Or had Hank seen someone else in a blue shirt hurrying through the night, someone who’d taken advantage of the situation?

Chris had returned to Downhome to lay old ghosts to rest, not to dig up skeletons. His better judgment warned him to leave the matter alone. Ethan had already decided the case didn’t merit reopening.

No one but the Lowells took Barry’s claims of innocence seriously. Until this point, neither had Chris. But if he’d unwittingly helped bring about a miscarriage of justice, he couldn’t let it go.

Chapter Four

In her office on Monday afternoon, Karen was reviewing the nursing home’s financial statement when she became aware of raised voices from the nearby dining room. She was prepared to leave the matter to her staff, when a small crash rocketed her into action.

Hurrying into the large room where a few residents lingered after lunch, she saw a knot of people in one corner. Jane Duke, an aide whose no-nonsense manner generally made short work of minor disputes, was kneeling and picking up the remains of a coffee mug. Eighty-four-year-old Davy Marshak, a retired mechanic with the disposition of a rhinoceros with a toothache, sat in his chair, glaring.

The other members of the group were Davy’s roommate, Junior Ferguson, and food-service director Marquis Lyons, the apparent target of the man’s ill humor.

As Karen entered, Marquis threw up his hands in frustration. “Everyone else says the chicken was tender. And the rice pudding—it’s what you asked for!”

“It had lumps in it!” Davy snapped.

“Rice pudding always has lumps,” Junior said mildly. “Give the man a break, Davy.”

“I don’t like the way he cooks.” His roommate folded his arms. “We need a new chef.”

“You need a new outlook!” Marquis declared. “Yours is so sour, no wonder nothing tastes good.” Few people managed to rile Marquis, but Davy had a gift for pushing people past their limits.