A Cloud of Suspicion

When he came across a late notice from the library, he read the note with special interest. It was signed by Shelby Mason.

Shelby, with the gorgeous red hair and roses in her cheeks. So she had moved from working at the college library to working at the city library. Why hadn’t she left this miserable town behind?

She’d been a sweet kid. He had wanted to ask her about her life this morning at the café, but he had left instead when he saw the number of cold stares leveled in his direction.

He’d cut short the conversation as much for her sake as for his. The gossip machine in Loomis could grind her up and spit her out in no time just for passing the time of day with him.

He tossed the letter aside with a weary shake of his head. It seemed he still had a need to protect the underdog.

What made him think Shelby Mason needed protection? In Loomis, he was the underdog. A cur no one would speak up for.

He rose and wandered through the kitchen and down the hall that led to the back of the house. His old bedroom was the first door on the right.

Stepping inside, he wasn’t surprised to find it stripped bare. His football trophies, his track ribbons, his posters of Easy Rider, Santana and Jennifer Lopez were all gone. His stepfather had gotten rid of every trace of him. Only the blue drapes remained to remind Patrick of the way the room once looked. He pulled the door shut.

The next room down the hall was his father’s bedroom. Easing the door open, Patrick looked in. The bed was neatly made. There were a few clothes scattered around, but nothing of his mother’s.

He frowned when he saw the empty bookcases lining two walls. Had his father gotten rid of his mother’s books?

Diana Rivers had been an English teacher with a true love of literature and history and a passion for collecting old books. Some of Patrick’s fondest memories were of the two of them traveling to estate sales, rummage sales, even auctions looking for unusual books on the state’s history or first editions of her favorite authors.

Once, at a garage sale in Covington she paid a dollar for a first edition of a Mark Twain novel and had spoken of it gleefully for months afterwards.

A lumber mill worker like his father and his grandfather before him, Ben Rivers had put up with his wife’s odd obsession, but he never understood why words were so important to her.

Patrick closed the bedroom door and turned to the last small room at the end of the hall. It had been his mother’s sewing room. When he pushed open the door, he found himself confronted with a room stacked full of packing boxes.

Lifting the lid off the nearest one, he found it contained some of his mother’s clothes. A second box held more of the same, but he relaxed when he opened the third box. In it were dozens of his mother’s books.

Sinking onto the dusty floor, Patrick drew out a novel bound with thick red leather and embossed with gold lettering. He breathed in the scent of the old paper and truly smiled for the first time since he had crossed the Louisiana state line.

Shelby’s day passed in a busy blur at the city library. After the weekend there were always plenty of books in the drive-up return book bin to be checked in, reshelved or mended. A rush of customers in the early afternoon kept her busy and left her little time to think about the type of memorial program she could develop for Mrs. Renault.

As busy as she was, she still found herself thinking about Patrick Rivers and the odd way he had smiled at her.

She’d had such a crush on him in college. Of course, he had barely noticed her.

As the captain of a winning football team he’d had his pick of girls, but he’d been more than a jock. He’d spent plenty of late nights studying at the campus library. Sometimes, when he stayed until she had to lock up, he would walk her to her dorm. It made her feel so special.

Looking back, her infatuation seemed silly now. Her dorm had been on the way to his place. He hadn’t really been walking her home. He’d just been walking in the same direction and being kind. It had been his kindness that made the accusations about him so hard to believe.

Shelby recalled the night vividly. Patrick had just led their team to a regional championship. Most of the campus had turned out to celebrate the big win with a bonfire in a secluded part of the bayou.

Shelby had watched the merrymakers with a touch of envy. It wasn’t that she wanted to drink or party, she just wanted Patrick to notice her.

He didn’t, of course, because she stayed in the background, a shy mouse of a girl that no one noticed. Not like Coral Travis. Everyone noticed her.

Standing by herself in the shadows that night, Shelby overheard a disturbing conversation. She recognized Coral’s voice telling someone that she was going home with Patrick, whether he knew it or not. He was her ticket out of Loomis.

Before Shelby could retreat, Coral had come out of a stand of small trees and spied her.

Shelby could still hear the mocking tone of Coral’s voice. “What are you doing here? Hoping some guy will get drunk enough to ask you out?”

From some unknown source of strength, Shelby managed to reply, “Patrick deserves better than you.”

Coral only laughed and said, “Get out of the sandbox, chubby, this is where the big kids play.”

Mortified, Shelby watched as Coral sauntered off and insinuated herself next to Patrick. The two of them left together less than half an hour later. Shelby took her bruised ego and wounded heart home where she indulged in a good cry.

The next day the news of Patrick’s arrest for rape spread across the campus like wildfire. Nearly everyone believed it was true.

Would it have made a difference if I’d spoken up and told the police what Coral said? But what reason would Coral have had to lie about such a serious charge?

The same questions had haunted Shelby for weeks afterward. When Patrick left town, she thought the answers didn’t matter anymore. Until now.

A patron approached Shelby for help finding a book. Pulling her mind out of the past, she dismissed Patrick Rivers from her thoughts and got back to work.

When five o’clock rolled around, Shelby and Wendy closed up and walked to their cars in the parking lot behind the building. The lot, shared with the town hall, the library and several other businesses, was quickly emptying as people headed home.

Shelby caught sight of Chuck Peters standing at the street corner checking a pay phone for loose coins. She knew a moment of guilt. She hadn’t found time to call Reverend Harmon.

Chuck glanced in her direction. He spun around and hurried away, casting frightened glances over his shoulder.

“Shelby, look,” Wendy said, drawing her attention away from the odd behavior of the little man.

Following Wendy’s gaze, Shelby saw Coral Travis talking to Wendell beside her car. An angry expression hardened Coral’s sharp features. It was plain the two were arguing.

Wendy’s eyes grew round as she relished more gossip. “I wonder what Wendell Bixby thinks about Patrick’s return? A city councilman running for mayor can’t be thrilled to have his fiancée’s unhappy past raked up again.”

Knowing the town as well as she did, Shelby knew that was exactly what would happen. Wendy wasn’t the only one who liked to gossip.

As Shelby stopped at her own car, she noticed a white slip of paper waving from beneath the driver’s side wiper blade. Expecting it to be simply another Mother’s Day Festival flyer, she unfolded it and stared at the message in astonishment.

The block-printed note said,

Keep your fat mouth shut about that night or you’ll regret it.

THREE

A few minutes before nine o’clock the next morning, Shelby was still pondering the mystery of the note as she and Wendy walked toward the library door with Sarah Farley holding both their hands.

After going over it a million times, the note still didn’t make sense. Why send her such a childish threat? Who could have written it? Keep her mouth shut about what night?

The night Leah went missing? The night Earl was murdered?

She’d gone over every minute of those nights with the police and the FBI a dozen times.

Mr. Peters had been babbling about not seeing something that night. Had his confused, paranoid mind focused on Shelby as a threat for some reason?

Or did the note refer to another night? The night of the Christmas party four years ago? The night of the bonfire ten years ago?

Charla Renault had certainly made it plain she wouldn’t tolerate gossip about her son, but Shelby couldn’t see Charla writing such a vague warning. She had no trouble delivering her threats in person.

That left Coral. Had she written the note? Shelby wouldn’t put it past her, but why? It didn’t make sense that after ten years Coral would suddenly start worrying that Shelby might talk about their confrontation the night of her alleged rape.

Was it because Patrick Rivers had returned?

Shelby inserted her key in the lock of the library door. The only explanation that made sense was that the note had been placed on her car by mistake.

She held the door open to let Wendy and Sarah precede her into the building as she struggled with the key. It always stuck. She would have to get a new one made one of these days.

“Can I go play?” Sarah looked at her for permission.

Shelby nodded and Sarah darted into the building. She already knew exactly where she wanted to go. The playroom where Shelby and Wendy held their Story Hour each Tuesday and Thursday morning at nine-thirty. A cast of character puppets lined the deep window seat in the room, waiting to be brought to life.

Once story time was over, Sarah’s next favorite activity was helping Shelby empty the return book bin. Standing on a chair beside the metal container, Sarah would proudly hand over the books one by one until it was empty.

For Shelby, it was fun and yet sad to see Sarah acting so grown-up. Leah would be proud of her.

After those activities, Sarah would play on her special floor mat behind the counter until Clint arrived.

Shelby smiled as Sarah raced away, followed closely by Wendy. Keeping the child with her at the library for two mornings a week was Shelby’s way of allowing Clint Herald a little breathing space.

The poor man had had parenthood thrust on him the same night his sister vanished. Shelby knew he was struggling to balance his construction business with Sarah’s full-time needs and the ongoing search for Leah. Helping him by entertaining Sarah for a few hours was the least she could do.

The sound of approaching footsteps made Shelby look over her shoulder. Patrick Rivers was climbing the steps behind her.

The sudden skip of her heart caught her completely off guard. Feeling as flustered as she had when she was a college freshman, she struggled to get the key out of the lock.

“Let me.” Closing his hand over hers, he turned it until it released.

“Thank you.” She yanked the key free and pulled away from him. Her hand tingled from his touch. Warmth raced up her arm.

“My pleasure.” He held the door open, allowing her to escape his overwhelming presence.

She crossed the entryway to the curved glass-fronted counter where her top picks for the week were displayed nestled in deep blue satin. Opening a small half door, she let herself behind the semicircular counter and closed the mahogany panel with a loud click. With the wide countertop between them she felt much more in control.

Patrick strolled in with an unhurried stride. Today he was wearing jeans and a sleeveless red denim shirt that exposed his tanned and muscular arms. Once again Shelby was reminded of a big cat on the prowl—all muscle and power waiting to explode. Her pulse kicked up another notch.

Please don’t let me sound as breathless as I feel.

Pasting a smile on her face, she said, “Good morning. How may I help you?”

The noise of the outer door opening caused them both to glance in that direction. Two women with toddlers in tow entered the building. The quick glance the women exchanged when they noticed Patrick told Shelby they knew exactly who he was. They both herded their children back outside.

Shelby saw the slight slump to his shoulders before he turned back to her and laid a stack of books on the counter.

It must be awful to have people look at him with such suspicion and fear. She didn’t want to feel sorry for him but she couldn’t help it.

Did he regret the past? Had he done it?

He pushed the books toward her. “I found these at the house. I wanted to return them and pay whatever fine is due.”

Opening the books, she found they were three months overdue. Did criminals return past-due library material? Why was it so hard to believe he’d done the things he was accused of?

“How much do I owe?” His grim face could have been carved out of stone.

The Patrick she remembered had smiled more. She suddenly missed that about him.

“Thank you for returning these. That will be one hundred dollars.”

“What?” His eyes widened and locked with hers, a scowl cutting two deep creases between his dark brows.

Had she really said that? She didn’t make jokes. She didn’t flirt with her patrons. No, she certainly wasn’t flirting.

She felt a rush of heat in her cheeks. “Just kidding. Our maximum fine is five dollars.”

Scanning each book back into the system allowed her to avoid looking at him. When she did glance up, it was to see a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

Relaxing, she said, “You didn’t check them out. I’m just happy you returned them. Of course, if you feel compelled to make a donation, I’ll gladly accept. It’s tax deductible.”

He pulled his wallet from his hip pocket and thumbed through it. Selecting a bill, he laid a twenty on the counter. “Keep the change.”

She smiled shyly. “Thank you. Let me get you a receipt.”

Patrick leaned his elbows on the counter and watched Shelby as she pulled the necessary form from a drawer. His intention that morning had been to drop the books into the drive-up bin. It wasn’t until he saw her walking across the parking lot that the desire to speak to her again had made him change his mind and come inside.

He was glad he had. Studying her, he tried to figure out why she was so appealing.

Her white blouse was simple and modest. She wore it tucked into the waistband of a narrow gray skirt. If she was trying to look the part of a librarian, she was succeeding.

She had a neat figure, but he’d seen far more stunning women who didn’t spark his interest the way Shelby Mason did.

Maybe it was her red-gold hair. He liked the way she wore it long and loose. Was that it?

When she glanced up at him again, he suddenly knew the answer. The appeal was in her eyes.

A pale green-brown, they changed with the light and her mood. Sometimes they were green, sometimes almost gold. There wasn’t any subterfuge or malice in her clear gaze. All he saw was kindness and curiosity and something he didn’t have. A sense of inner peace.

People might overlook a small woman like Shelby Mason, but she wouldn’t overlook anyone.

He glanced away, feeling an awkwardness that was unusual for him. Instead of staring at her, he looked around the room. The brightly painted walls and shoulder-high shelves didn’t look anything like the library he remembered from his many trips here with his mother when he was a kid.

The place was brighter, more open. The colorful red carpet underfoot helped muffle the noise. If it had been here when he was young, he might have gotten in less trouble with Old Man Hillshire for being noisy.

Patrick studied Shelby once more. Maybe it was her presence that made the place shimmer with light.

Don’t get fanciful. She wouldn’t give you the time of day if she didn’t have to.

“Will there be anything else?” she asked, handing him the receipt.

There wasn’t, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. “There’s been some changes in here. Looks nice.”

“Thank you. I’m rather proud of my accomplishments.”

She gestured toward a row of computers facing the wall. “We now have Internet access, books on tape, a regular series of speakers on Saturday afternoons and several special programs just for children.”

“I noticed the little girl who came in with you. Is she yours?”

He suddenly disliked the idea that she belonged to someone else. He didn’t want her to be happily married with children. He checked her left hand. She wasn’t wearing a wedding band.

Shelby’s smile faded. “No. Her name is Sarah Farley.”

“Farley? Why does that name ring a bell?” Picking up a loose ink pen, he began to twirl it on the counter.

“Her father, Earl Farley, was murdered and her mother has been missing for the last three months.”

He’d seen a few headlines about that in the newspapers at the house. “That must be rough on the kid.”

He glanced toward the area where Sarah was making an elephant puppet romp over the other toys. Wendy was setting out small, red plastic chairs in a semicircle around a stage.

He knew what it was like to lose a mother. At least he’d had more years with his. A kid as young as Sarah wouldn’t have memories to cling to.

“It’s hard to say how much she really understands,” Shelby continued quietly. “She still asks for her mother, especially when she gets upset. It breaks my heart when that happens.”

“Her mother was a friend of yours?”

“Is,” Shelby stated firmly as she raised her chin. “Her mother is a friend of mine.”

“After three months, you don’t think she’s going to come waltzing back into town, do you?”

“If she can—she will.”

The conviction in Shelby’s words touched him. What would it be like to have someone believe so strongly in him?

“I’m just saying it isn’t likely.”

“I know. I pray the FBI will find her. I pray she’ll come home safe and sound. I pray she’ll walk in here and smother Sarah with hugs and kisses. I get up every day with faith in my heart that today will be that day God brings her back to us.”

Patrick knew her faith in God’s help was misplaced but couldn’t bring himself to say it to her face. “Why is the FBI looking into the case?”

“The mayor requested their help. Loomis has changed more than you might guess. We’ve had three murders here since the first of the year.”

“Three?” He was surprised.

“Angelina Loring and Dylan Renault were both murdered shortly after Earl Farley.”

Patrick gave a low whistle. “Dylan Renault, of the Renaults? I’ll bet that shook up the town. Wealthy playboy meets fitting end?”

She scowled at him. “Being shot in the back is not a fitting end for anyone.”

He tipped his head, acknowledging he was wrong. “Point taken.”

Funny that he didn’t want her thinking he was crass. Generally, he didn’t care what anyone thought. Why was it important that she think well of him? He’d be gone from this town in a week or so and he’d never see her again.

He straightened, determined to ignore the nagging little voice that told him to stick around and get to know her better. Women were trouble. Even pretty librarians. He’d learned that lesson all too well.

“I should go before the PTA starts boycotting the building.”

“They won’t,” she said quickly. “Don’t you remember what’s coming up?”

Did she want him to stay? Against his better judgment, he allowed himself to be persuaded. “What?”

Shelby bit the inside of her lip. What was she doing trying to prolong this conversation? Was she reliving some teenage fantasy? It was almost ridiculous how much she felt compelled to keep him here.

“The Mother’s Day Festival is right around the corner. No one is going to make waves until after the Mother of the Year winner is announced.”

She had work to do. She shouldn’t be standing here chatting with him. Other patrons were coming in with their children. Story time was the highlight of her week. She loved showing kids the wonders of a book and watching their imaginations take flight.

Only, here she stood, making sheep eyes at Patrick Rivers instead of getting ready for her role as Mother Goose. Talk about pathetic. Why couldn’t she let go of this silly infatuation with the man?

Maybe she should see Jocelyn as a patient instead of for coffee.

“So Loomis still has that stupid pageant?” There was no disguising the smirk in his voice.

She bristled in defense of the town. “It’s a tremendous honor to win Mother of the Year. There’s been a lot of talk about canceling it because of all that’s happened, but I hope they don’t.”

“I remember the pageant as a battle for bragging rights between the Renaults and the Pershings. Has that changed?”

Ducking her head, she acknowledged he was right. “Not as much as some might like, but this year Ava Renault and Max Pershing are both working on the committee. They’ll see that it’s kept fair and square.”

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