Small-Town Secrets

Adam had also been vigilant about smokers during his tenure at Bridget’s Animal Adventure. He’d taken the infraction a bit personally, as his autistic brother was bothered by smoke, so much so that he often demanded to be taken home if he smelled it, no matter how important the event the family was attending.

“And,” Yolanda continued, “the expression on her face wasn’t harmless. She stood in the middle of the room as if she had a right to be here.”

“At BAA we called that attitude entitlement.”

“Yes,” Yolanda agreed. “That’s exactly the attitude she personified.”

Adam glanced around the room loaded with history books. It even smelled old. This was not a place he would normally spend much time. His taste bent more toward true crime and horror.

“You really think people will buy old school history books?” he asked.

“I used to.”

“Well, you’ve always been a bit strange.”

Her color deepened, exactly the response he’d hoped for. He bent down, picking up a book that had fallen to the ground. “Soiled Doves of the Desert,” he read. “I’m thinking these aren’t the kind of doves that squawked.”

Yolanda took the book from his hand and placed it on the shelf. “I’m being serious. Something about her wasn’t right.”

“Well, she didn’t come past me. I’d have seen her.”

Annoyed, Yolanda said, “Which means she went out the back door, which is definitely not a public exit. And just how did she know where it was?”

“Are you talking to me or just muttering to yourself?”

“Both,” Yolanda retorted. She patted a bookshelf, moved a book then looked at the shelves below and above. “Oh, I almost forgot. She flicked the ashes...”

“What?”

Yolanda had gone pale. Not a color he liked seeing on her. She whispered a response, “She used my favorite yellow coffee cup as an ashtray. But the cup is gone.”

She kept searching the shelves and then went to the end table and chair in the corner of the room.

“You think she swiped your cup?” Adam asked.

“I can’t imagine why. This makes no sense.”

“You’re probably overreacting.”

“I don’t overreact, ever.”

That was true. She was always in control, always did what she was supposed to do. Yolanda had once been in a school play, and the stage had collapsed under her feet. She’d kept saying her lines even as the actor playing the cowardly lion helped her out of the hole.

“You had to have seen her.”

You have to pay more attention...

He’d heard that a million times growing up, mostly from his father. They’d never seen eye to eye on anything, particularly after he’d dropped out of high school, and Adam had been desperate to leave Scorpion Ridge as soon as possible. Now he was back.

“No one walked past me. She must have gone out the back.”

“But—”

He ruffled her hair, knowing it would distract her. “It doesn’t look like anything’s missing. It was probably some tourist who wandered in, realized she’d made a mistake and then wandered out.”

Yolanda nodded, though she didn’t appear convinced.

Adam checked his cell phone and turned to leave. “I’ve got to be at the Tae Kwon Do studio in thirty minutes, and I still need to finish the door.”

“Tell your brother I said hi.”

“I will.”

Snapp’s Studio, his family’s business, had employed the whole Snapp family for years—except for Adam. He was there now, though, once again working for his father. Only this time if his father made a request, Adam jumped to it, trying to make his dad’s life easier.

Tonight Adam was scheduled to give a lesson to a beginner class. His twin brother, Andy, would be there stacking mats, folding towels, offering advice from the side of the room. If the noise and chaos got overwhelming for Andy, he’d go into the back office away from everyone. But usually it was where Andy felt most comfortable.

Right after his brother was diagnosed with autism, a well-meaning counselor had handed Adam’s mother a pamphlet and recommended a group home for him.

Both parents decided that was not in Andy’s future.

Adam respected all they’d done to keep that from happening. Snapp’s Studio was the result of taking what Andy loved most and making it his life’s work.

Yolanda followed Adam. “You know, the old woman didn’t give me her name but she did say something about a relative. Have you heard of Chester Ventimiglia?”

“His name is on the courthouse wall. On a plaque.”

“Trust you to remember that. If an historic politician is commemorated anywhere in an artful way, you’ll know. Are you sure you don’t mean Richard? Wasn’t he a judge?”

Adam bent down, opened his toolbox and soon cleared the floor.

He was sure. Both Chester and Richard’s names were written on the courthouse, but they were two different engravings.

All his life his father had been telling Adam to pay attention to what went on around him, not to lose himself in whatever project he was engaged in.

And he’d been right.

Adam Snapp had become a successful artist, but he hadn’t been able to balance art and life. His art had become his sole focus.

All the while, the rest of his life had fallen apart.

CHAPTER TWO

IF ANYONE HAD told Yolanda that Adam would become Mr. Fix-it, she’d have laughed. He was a dreamer, an artist and a wanderer. His family and friends had always worried about him, sometimes even more than they had about his brother. But Yolanda had to admit, Adam always seemed to land on his feet, albeit wobbly.

After dropping out of high school, he’d managed to become a pseudo artist-in-residence, surviving by doing caricatures during the weekend and then masterminding most of the artwork—mostly murals—at Bridget’s Animal Adventure. Back then, a whole five years ago, he’d painted during the day and during the night, acted as a security guard in exchange for room and board.

Yolanda’s mom had called him a loser. But Trina Sanchez had thought only a man wearing a suit and tie and bringing home a four-digit-a-week paycheck was to be admired.

Yolanda had never met that man. Her memories of her own father were shadowy. She remembered that he was tall and that his chin and cheeks had always felt rough to her touch. He’d smelled of ink, as he’d worked in Phoenix at some type of print shop. He’d died when Yolanda was four. Her mother hadn’t talked about him much, simply saying he should have had more drive.

Yolanda had long suspected that no one possessed enough drive to please her mother. Yolanda certainly hadn’t.

When it came to Adam Snapp, Yolanda couldn’t get a handle on whether he had drive or not. He was passionate about his art, and never seemed to worry about anything else, like rent or food. In his teens and early twenties, he’d been content to live in an old house, more a caretaker’s cabin, on BAA’s property. Existing day to day, almost like a hippie. Yolanda had almost envied him this worry-free existence.

Unfortunately, there’d been only so many walls to paint in Scorpion Ridge, which was just a tiny spot on the Arizona map. Fortunately, his talent had gotten noticed, big-time, and he’d left Scorpion Ridge with a suitcase of clothes and four suitcases of art supplies. At least that’s what Yolanda’s grandmother had heard from Mr. Teasdale, who’d heard it from... Well, the small-town grapevine had many roots.

What Yolanda remembered most was that when Adam left Scorpion Ridge, her mom had shaken her head and given him six months before he came back, head hanging, to move in with his parents.

Yolanda had refrained from mentioning that she still lived with her parent. And, although Yolanda nodded in agreement with her mother’s prediction, secretly she believed Adam would do something great with his talent. She respected that he had the motivation to follow his muse to other places. She’d been so busy making sure she got straight A’s that she’d not had time to develop a muse. Wasn’t sure she knew how.

And, though she’d never admit it, especially to him, she thought Adam was quite good.

To everyone’s surprise, two years after Adam left, an article in the Scorpion Ridge Gazette reported that he’d won a national competition and was becoming fairly well-known, with patrons willing to pay in the five digits for his art.

Even in black-and-white, the winning mural featured in the newspaper was riveting. It was as if Adam had only been practicing when he’d painted all the murals at BAA. His real talent lay elsewhere.

And now he worked for her, removing hinges.

“Yolanda.”

Startled, Yolanda blinked, realizing that she’d followed Adam to the front porch and had just stopped, afraid to go back in the house but unsure what to do next.

“I’m fine.”

He shook his head. “No, you’re not.”

Yolanda started to protest, but stopped. Adam, of all people, could read people’s moods. He’d been doing it his whole life, watching out for his disabled brother by diffusing emotional situations before they got out of hand.

“You’re right,” she admitted, “for some reason, I’m overreacting.”

“Not like you,” he admitted. “How can I help?”

It felt strange to accept help from him. She and Adam were usually adversaries—she promoting the side of logic; he on the side of risk.

She glanced back at the house, almost asking him to walk around with her again. Help her figure out where the woman had gone, how she’d disappeared. He’d do it, she knew. He would never walk away from someone who needed him.

“Nothing right now,” she finally said. “I’ll figure it out.”

He nodded, not looking convinced, and he took a couple of steps down the front stairs.

She didn’t want him to go.

“Adam, why’d you come home?”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by the question. “Haven’t you heard? I came back to help my parents.”

Yolanda knew that his dad had hurt his back while teaching a Tae Kwon Do class, and that the doctor had found something suspicious in the X-ray. But Adam’s parents were young. Probably in their fifties.

Her mother had been young, too, even though Yolanda had been a change-of-life baby, a complete surprise, born when her mother was forty-six. She’d passed away at seventy-one, too young. Yolanda still wanted her mother. And Gramma Rosi was eighty-six. Maybe eighty-seven. No one was quite sure.

“I heard that but didn’t realize your father was so sick that you had to give up your career.”

“Sometimes family comes first.”

No, Yolanda thought. Family always comes first.

But she didn’t buy that his father’s illness was the only thing that had brought Adam home. Something had to have happened, something that had stymied his paintbrush, filled his eyes with sadness and erased the smile from his face.

Yolanda didn’t know what, but right now she was glad he was here because his over-six-foot frame made her feel protected. She rather liked the sensation. The old woman must have really spooked her, enough so that she walked to the edge of the steps, closer to him. Funny, she’d never realized just how tall he was.

“I’ve got a class to teach,” he reminded her, but he didn’t leave. The street in front of her wasn’t busy. It was a small-town kind of Monday, paced for the beginning of the week. Tuesday and Wednesday would see more people out and about. By Thursday the out-of-towners would arrive not only to enjoy the wildlife habitat but also to stay at the many ranches that catered to weekend cowboys.

It was Yolanda’s town. The Acuras had arrived here just after the Moores and Ventimiglias. She liked the close-knit Scorpion Ridge community, quaint downtown and the feeling of a rich history that came with it. Adam had always been meant for bigger and better things, however.

He stood for a moment, watching her. “If you’re really afraid, you can always come to the studio with me. I doubt your ghost will be signed up for a beginner’s class.”

“She wasn’t a ghost. Ghosts don’t smoke.” Yolanda stepped around him and settled in one of the two rocking chairs on the front porch and studied her surroundings. Across the street, a young woman pushed a stroller. The woman’s husband worked at a nearby mine. Maybe someday she’d come in for a romance novel for her and a picture book for the baby. Another neighbor raked his yard. A car—Yolanda recognized it as belonging to the minister—traveled down the street and turned right.

Nothing was out of place or suspicious.

“She’s gone,” Yolanda muttered.

“Who’s gone?”

Yolanda started at the new voice. “Gramma Rosi, where’d you come from?”

“I was sitting in the backyard on the swing, enjoying the garden. I thought it was time to come in.”

Rosi Acura still owned the house, still had a key. She could visit whenever she wanted...and apparently leave doors unlocked so people could wander in off the street.

Right now she called a lot of shots in Yolanda’s life. Her biggest stipulation: “Even though I’m giving you the house, I still want things in my name. I’ll pay the gas and water and such. All the taxes.”

When Yolanda protested, Gramma Rosi merely scoffed and added her two cents to Yolanda’s mom’s wish that her daughter live her dream. “In the world today there are people who love what they do and people who don’t know how to love. You are a lot like your mother, but you don’t have to live like she did. All my life I worried about that girl.”

“Hello, Mrs. Acura,” Adam said. He took two steps down the front stairs, apparently feeling it was okay to leave now that Yolanda wasn’t alone.

“Adam, I love what you’ve done to the floorboards. They look like they did when my family first moved in.”

“When was that, Mrs. Acura?”

“Nineteen hundred and forty-six... maybe earlier, or later. I had just turned sixteen. Until now, it’s always been a private residence.” Gramma Rosi gazed up at the house, all smiles, something in her eyes that Yolanda didn’t understand.

“It’s still somewhat a private residence,” Yolanda reminded her. “I’m living upstairs, remember.”

Maybe Scorpion Ridge was too small a town for a used bookstore... That had been her aunt Freda’s comment. Rosi’s second daughter. Yolanda had always thought it magical that her grandmother had had two families. First, she’d had Trina. Then, when Trina was grown and gone, she’d had two more children.

“They kept me young,” Gramma Rosi claimed. “Also, it made it so much easier to lie about my age.” Freda had moved to California the day after her college graduation. They saw her maybe once every three years.

You’ll have to take care of your own insurance, both life and medical... That had been her uncle Juan’s contribution. He was Gramma’s youngest child.

He lived life to the fullest, always had, yet seemed to land on his feet and make good decisions. Yolanda, on the other hand, needed prodding to take risks and sometimes took so long deciding which course to take that she missed out on opportunities.

But Rosi had made the decision to open the bookstore easy by giving Yolanda her house. “You, more than Freda or Juan, deserve the house. Take it now while I can enjoy watching what you do with it.”

True, Freda was in California. She didn’t want it. Juan lived in Phoenix in a gated community, complete with wife and children and all their activities, although he did love to come visit.

Grandma had another stipulation. “And I’ll work for you. You don’t even have to pay me.”

Just what Yolanda needed. Gramma Rosi would give away books if the customer didn’t have enough money, or worse, she would lend him the money. And if a book that had questionable content—maybe it was a bit too sensual—wound up on her counter, she’d accidentally misplace it. Even if a buyer was right in front of her.

But her immediate concern was the mysterious older woman. “Gramma, did anyone leave out the back door while you were sitting in the backyard swing?”

“No, why?”

“I found an elderly woman in the history section. She said she was searching for a book. I turned away for a moment and when I looked back, she was gone.”

“It was someone you didn’t know?”

“She said she was related to the Ventimiglia family.”

Gramma Rosi’s smile disappeared. “You must be mistaken,” she said. “That family died out. They’ll do no more harm.”

“Harm?” Yolanda said.

“What did she look like? What did she want?”

Quickly, Yolanda described the woman and mentioned the book she’d asked after.

“Phhh,” said Rosi, still frowning. “Probably some reporter thinking there was a story. The Ventimiglias used to own just about everything in these parts. If she appears again, you find me.”

“But—”

“Just do it,” Gramma Rosi said.

With that, she went inside. Yolanda watched her climb the wide stairs, slowly and stiffly.

“I’ve never seen her like that,” Yolanda remarked.

“I’m curious, too, now. Let me call GG,” Adam offered, setting his tool chest on the porch. “If there’s a Ventimiglia relative still living and hiding somewhere, she’d know.”

For a moment Yolanda thought about saying no. Her grandmother had been so upset. But why?

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt.”

“They’re about the same age, your grandmother and mine.”

Which meant that Adam’s great-grandmother Loretta, who wouldn’t let him add great to her title and so was called GG, was nearing ninety.

“She was a Realtor for all those years,” Adam said. “What she doesn’t know about Scorpion Ridge isn’t worth knowing.” He fetched his cell phone from one of his many pockets and soon was busy trying to get the lowdown on the Ventimiglias.

Yolanda sat down on the top step, wrapping her arms around her knees and listening.

“GG says she thinks the family has died out, too,” he reported. “And she’s never heard of a Chester. GG wants to know if you’re sure the name was Chester and not Richard.”

“I’m sure.”

“Guess neither of you noticed the plaque on the courthouse in the middle of town,” Adam teased before returning to the call. He paid rapt attention to Loretta, nodding exaggeratedly before sharing, “The last Ventimiglia, not named Chester, left decades ago, more than six.” He listened some more, finally saying to Yolanda, “GG says they were not a nice family, and everyone was glad to see them go.”

“Well, your great-grandma and my gramma agree. Hmmm, why’d they leave?” Yolanda wondered.

But Adam was still intently listening to Loretta. “GG says she’s not heard the name Ventimiglia in a long time. She’s sure you’re mistaken about the name.”

“No, I’m not. And the name sure got a rise out of my gramma.”

Adam shrugged and handed Yolanda the phone.

“The Ventimiglias are long gone,” Loretta Snapp said, her voice guarded. “Died out, and I don’t recall there being a Chester. But my grandson says his name is on the courthouse wall. Adam’s always had a good memory. It’s been years since I’ve even thought about the family.”

“Did you know any of the Ventimiglias?” Yolanda asked.

“The person Adam described sounds like Ivy, but she died a long time ago. Why, she’d be almost ninety if she were alive.”

“Sorry,” Yolanda said, thinking that Loretta hadn’t really answered the question. “And she didn’t have any children?”

“Oh, she lived the life she deserved, went off to college, but never married or had any children.”

“Are there any distant cousins or such?”

“Not that I’m aware of. The family left town when I was still a teenager. It caused a bit of a scandal.”

“Any idea what the scandal was?”

“No.”

“So my elderly visitor was probably somebody doing a bit of research on town history,” Yolanda decided.

“If you want to know about old families, ask me about mine. I was born a Munro. I married a Snapp, who’ve lived in Scorpion Ridge for over a hundred years. I can also tell you about the Moores and the Sheldons and—”

“That’s all right,” Yolanda said.

Adam held out his hand, and after thanking Loretta, Yolanda returned his phone. He said goodbye and hurried down the steps to his ancient minivan. He was the only guy she knew who willingly drove one. It had always been full of paints, brushes and old towels.

It perfectly represented his vagabond life and reminded Yolanda that she’d only be able to rely on him temporarily.

Heading back toward the house, Yolanda couldn’t help but feel that Adam’s grandmother, who apparently was well versed in the whole history of Scorpion Ridge and its oldest families, knew more than she was telling.

* * *

SNAPP’S TAE KWON DO studio was in a strip mall nestled between a nail salon and a doughnut shop. It would celebrate fifteen years of service in a few months. In some ways the studio was a blessing. It gave Adam’s autistic brother, Andy, a productive way to earn a living. But it had also been a huge change for the Snapps. When Adam was eleven, his father had walked away from a six-figure white-collar job and purchased the studio. The Snapps had gone from buying whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted, to spending on a budget.

And Adam had been angry. He’d liked having a television in his room, being able to get any video game he wanted and the best art supplies.

It had been the beginning of his strained relationship with his father. Adam had just wanted a voice, to be heard, but his dad had never seemed to want to listen.

This afternoon the parking area in front of their studio was fairly empty, as the Scorpion Ridge schools didn’t get out for another hour, and the two morning Tae Kwon Do classes, one for tots and the other for seniors, had ended before Adam rolled out of bed.

“Hey,” his mother greeted him as he stepped into the foyer. She was at the front desk taking advantage of the lull by counting out fliers to be delivered to the local schools and anywhere kids or any potential client might be found.

“Andy feeling better?” Adam asked.

“No, he’s been in his room all day. Doesn’t want to come out.”

“Still don’t know what triggered the mood swing?”

“Not a clue.”

Andy was a creature of habit, a connoisseur of routine. If his day got out of whack, he closed down.

“Want some help?” Adam offered.

“No, go on back and see your father. He tried calling you earlier.” Marianne smiled at him, as she had his entire life. She’d been his champion, but she hadn’t really understood him, either.

Adam figured his dad was checking up on him, calling to make sure he would fill in for Andy and the three-thirty class. Adam didn’t need reminders. He was here to help out, and that’s what he’d do.

Well, that was the price for arriving early: too much time to talk. His dad might have traded a suit and tie for a white sparring uniform called a dobok, but he still harbored the soul of an accountant. He liked every task to be itemized, completed and checked off.

Maybe that was where Andy got his extreme need for routine.

Robert Snapp was hunched over his desk, muttering about paperwork and frowning. He still believed, even after almost a decade, that somehow Snapp’s Studio would turn a decent profit. Maybe in the big city, but here in Scorpion Ridge?

Getting sick had only made him want to succeed more.

“You wanted to talk to me?” Adam had ignored his dad’s phone call, but it was harder to ignore the man.

“Sit down.”

Adam reminded himself that he was a foot taller than his dad and that he’d been living on his own a long time: two years working at BAA and five years in three different states as a well-paid muralist.

But all he could remember was that every time he was called into his dad’s office, whether it was here at Snapp’s Studio or at home, he would hear how displeased his father was with him. Adam had sat through hundreds of lectures grilling him on grades that were never the best, goals that were not met and how in the Snapp household everyone had a job.