Down by the River (4 page)

“You’re looking for trouble,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Okay,” he chuckled. He sipped his champagne
and tapped his fingers on his knee. He looked around the ornate, overcrowded antique room while June took deep, slow breaths in through her nose, out through her mouth. He smiled at her, though she couldn’t see. Even as she struggled with pregnancy-induced stomach upset, he found her compellingly beautiful.

The sound of Myrna’s heels on the floor announced her return. “Here it is!” she said cheerfully. Myrna stood before them, holding a dress hanger high above her head. Flowing down to the floor, sheathed in thick, clear plastic, was a wedding gown. “I’ve saved this for you all these years, dear,” she said. “Now you can get married in your mother’s dress!”

An odd, strangled sound came from June. She turned away from her aunt and Jim and promptly threw up on the rug.

Over the years June had had patients tell her that with morning sickness, unlike food poisoning, the flu or any other nausea-producing condition, the second it was over, it was completely over. Just a few moments before she had struggled with a biting, churning illness that caused her to pinch her eyes closed, grit her teeth and pray. But once released, she took a couple of deep breaths and voilà, she felt like jogging. Jogging to the kitchen to make something to eat, in fact. It was nothing short of miraculous. Under no other circumstances but pregnancy did stomach upset resolve itself so efficiently.

Except for the humiliation of it. “Oh, God! Auntie, I’m so-o sorry!”

“Well, I’m sure you didn’t do it on purpose,” Myrna said weakly.

Endeara first peeked, then rushed from the kitchen with a cool, damp cloth. June rejected it. “Seriously, I feel absolutely fine now. As if I never felt ill. Except, of course, I’m mortified. That’s
never
happened to me before.”

Amelia came running with a pail and rags. “Pregnancy is the strangest thing,” she was saying.

“Oh, please, Amelia, you must let me!” June insisted.

“Never mind,” Myrna said, draping the wedding gown over the back of a chair. “I think we’ll find the scenery in the sunroom more to our liking.” Myrna tsked and said quietly, “I do hope your mother wasn’t watching.”

June bit her lip. It was all a coincidence. Jim’s mention of marriage and the appearance of the wedding gown had not made her throw up.

“I should help clean up,” June said, but the twins would have none of it.

“You’ve tended enough sick people in your time,” Endeara said.

“You’ve earned some tending,” said Amelia.

The sunroom was next to Myrna’s office, across the hall from the kitchen. It was here that she retired from her writing every day at five to have her martini—a celebration of a good day’s work. The
room was bright and airy and overlooked the Hudson House grounds which, under normal circumstances, boasted gardens, trees, vines and lawn, not to mention a view of the valley all the way to the coast. But at the moment it was a mess of compromised landscaping, holes and torn-up shrubs. Myrna sighed audibly as she entered the sunroom, then chose a seat that put her back to the yard.

“We’ll discuss the wedding another time,” Myrna said, more softly than was typical for her. “I’m very fond of this particular rug.”

“Aunt Myrna, the two things had
nothing—
”

“Of course, my darling. You just relax and take your time. You won’t be rushed by me. Why, I raised a child on my own, not a man in sight, if you’ll recall.” She looked rather wistfully at Jim. “However, had I one like…” Her voice trailed away.

Jim, however, was focused on the rubble outside the sun room. He frowned. “June told me the police did some digging out there,” he said.

“Some digging?” Myrna repeated. “They were looking for a body. The body of my late husband, Morton. That is, if he is late.” Then she smiled. “Don’t tell anyone I said so, but it wasn’t a completely ridiculous notion on the district attorney’s part. I’ve been writing such scenarios in my fiction for years, so they thought they were on to something. They don’t know how hard it is to be a writer, nor how difficult it is to be abandoned by your husband.”

June’s expression registered surprise at the
remark. She’d never before heard her aunt express that particular sentiment, but she should have known that, even though Myrna never showed it, it certainly must have hurt.

“But that’s behind us now,” Myrna said.

“I’d be happy to help you put the yard right again,” Jim said.

“That’s very thoughtful, young man, but I plan to make the D.A. pay the freight on that. Though I don’t really blame them for the suspicion, one has to be accountable for one’s actions. And on that score, I’ve been seriously considering making a major change in my future themes.”

“Really?” June asked. “No more knocking off philandering husbands?”

“The whole idea has gotten a little stale, even if it has made me rich. I have Edward to thank for that, when it comes right down to it.”

“Edward?”

Myrna gave a veiled smile. “You aren’t the only woman in this family who’s had a secret man, although mine is considerably farther removed. Despite many attempts, we’ve never managed to meet in person.”

June scooted to the edge of her chair. “Who is this, Auntie?”

“A gentleman writer, an historian, to whom I’ve corresponded for nearly twenty years. I’ve written to a large number of writers over the years. It’s very common among our breed, since we work in
solitude. But Edward has been quite constant. He began as a fan who was working on his very first book—an account of the Lewis and Clark expedition.”

Myrna rose and, without bothering to explain herself, went to her office and retrieved a book. She handed it to June.
The Promised Trail
by Edward Mortimer. June flipped to the back of the dust jacket. “No photo,” she said.

“Edward’s a tish older than me and very shy. He said he found himself faced with a choice between resurrecting his old army photo or demurring altogether.”

June closed the book and smiled at her aunt. “How is it you’ve never mentioned this…Edward?”

Myrna shrugged. “No particular reason. Or maybe there was. Maybe I didn’t want anyone to think me a silly old fool, because, as it happens, I’ve grown very fond of him over time.”

“I think that’s lovely,” June said.

“I ran the killer-wife idea by Edward and he went for it. Or maybe he ran it by me and I went for it, I can’t quite remember. He thought it was my best work, perhaps because I was so…so…furious when I wrote it. And it took off like a sky rocket. So he said, in his letter, ‘Don’t be silly, Myrna, do it again with a different twist. You’ve stumbled onto something your readers love.’ And, of course, I gave him advice as well. Writers tend to rely on each other for that kind of support.” She cleared her throat.
“Edward is the only person I’ve ever confided in to that depth. I’m typically very private.”

“Is there any chance you’ll meet him in person?”

“I doubt it. Some years ago I drove all the way to Fresno where he was to appear at a library talk and book signing, and wouldn’t you know it, he was taken with an attack of gout and couldn’t get out of bed. I don’t mind travel a bit, but I can’t light out in that old Caddy for a five-hour drive at my age. It would be reckless!”

“Well, if you ever see the opportunity present itself again, you just let me know,” June said. “I’ll take you wherever it is.” She stood up. “I think we should go, Auntie. I’ve left John stranded for too long at the clinic.”

“But you’ll be back soon?”

June kissed her aunt’s crepey cheek. “And often.”

On the way back to town, Jim said, “You do want to get married, don’t you, June?”

“I think so,” she said.

“You
think
so?”

Her hand immediately protected her tummy. “Don’t snap at me. I’ve been single a long time!”

His eyes bored into her for a moment, though he should have been watching the road. Finally he spoke. “You’ve been pregnant a long time, too.”

T
he people of Grace Valley were usually guilty of spreading gossip so fast that people would hear rumors about themselves before they had a chance to tell their own best friends. Like word of June having a secret man in her life, a baby on the way and no wedding date set—that news was all over town before she even had a chance to introduce Jim to her only aunt.

But there were times that word didn’t travel fast enough. News perhaps important enough to sound the alarm could sometimes sit like sludge and not move. Just such news was the presence of Conrad Davis in town when Jim had pointedly told him to scat. Jim was the only person who had been close enough to have gathered a sense—a professionally trained sense—that Conrad was bad news.

When Sam went to the gas station after breakfast at the café, he found Conrad and his laden truck. “Well, you didn’t get all that far, did you, son?” Sam
asked in a friendly manner. “Problems with the truck?”

“No, sir,” Conrad said sweetly. He looked down and shuffled his feet. “I was taking the wife and kids down to Fresno where my cousin said he thought there was work, when she popped like a cork by the side of the road.” He raised his eyes and allowed a shy smile. “A boy. Thank God for that woman doctor.”

“Yep. She’s a peach.”

“So now I got the wife in the hospital and I need to get there, but…” He paused, thinking. He looked down again. “I don’t reckon it’d be safe to leave this truck full of stuff in the parking lot over there. I’d come out and find it all gone.”

Sam looked at the tied-down, sorry mess of household goods and personal belongings. Frankly, nothing in there looked worth burning, much less stealing—especially not that stained and bloodied mattress sticking out the back end. He lifted a white eyebrow.

Conrad followed his eyes. “Erline gave birth on that. I’d of thrown it, but I ain’t got no others. The kids gotta have something between them and the ground.” The young man’s eyes grew moist. “It ain’t much, that load, but I need a place to store it so I can go over to the hospital and get my little girls. Can’t risk losing all that. Kids’ clothes and all.”

Sam had always lived simply, but that was by choice, not because he’d been down on his luck. The fact was, Sam made money without hardly trying.

“What kind of work you do, boy?”

“Construction. Janitor. A little mechanical, but not much.” He cleared his throat. “I’d do just about anything to keep a roof over my family’s head, sir.”

Sam didn’t need an employee. Heck, Sam didn’t even need to be around for the gas station to run itself. He’d had his share of hard times, having buried two wives, but he’d never been poor and he’d never had the worry of how to feed a family. There hadn’t been any children for him.

This young man could be a grandson.

“When did you last eat, son?”

Conrad rolled his eyes skyward, as if the answer lay in the clouds. “Not yesterday,” he said finally. “I think it was Saturday. We were camped for the night and I caught some fish.”

A smile broke over Sam’s face. “A man who can fish never needs be hungry. Tell you what, let’s go on down to the café, get a bite to eat and talk about some possibilities. This is no Fresno, but if we could find you something to do, do you think you could be persuaded to stay on awhile?”

Conrad’s face lit up. “Here? Hell, this here town’s way better than Fresno. Fresno’s an armpit. You ever been there?”

“Can’t say as I have.” Sam laughed.

“This town’s a whole lot better than Fresno. Way prettier. And the people are nicer, too.”

“People tend to be real nice in Grace Valley,” Sam confirmed. He dropped an arm around the kid’s
shoulders and began to pull him down the street toward the café. “Come on, let’s get a bite. George rarely messes up breakfast, and he has the best coffee in a hundred miles.”

Conrad seemed to pull back. “Sir, my load, sir. Can I just park her in the garage?”

“Don’t you worry about that load. Not in Grace Valley. I personally guarantee it’s safe.”

Conrad’s expression became wistful. “Sure would like to raise my kids in a place safe as that,” he said quietly.

“You never know,” Sam said. “Maybe that’ll work out.”

Harry Shipton sat at his desk in the parsonage, awash in a sea of papers with his checkbook register and calculator in the middle. He kept figuring, futilely. The answer was always the same. He was overdrawn. Again.

His hand reached for the phone out of habit and he snatched it away before he placed the call to his ex-wife, Brianna. It was humiliating for her to always be right—he was a dunce with money. His priorities were elsewhere. He was great with people, with spiritual encouragement, even with counseling. It had always made Brianna laugh, that he could so successfully counsel couples in trouble while his own marriage disintegrated before his very eyes, almost without him seeing it.

Well, at least they didn’t have children.

At least? He had wanted children. Brianna had wanted children. But the children hadn’t come.

His phone rang. “Pastor Shipton,” he answered. The woman on the other end of the line told him that her elderly father had been taken to the hospital early in the morning. It was very likely a stroke. The old man was only semiconscious. “Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry to hear that. Is he in Valley Hospital? I’ll go there this afternoon and sit with him for a while. But meanwhile, is there anything I can do for you?” Prayers, the woman requested. Other than that, she couldn’t think of a thing. “I’ll activate our prayer tree immediately. Now, don’t you worry, your father is a good man and the Lord will take good care of him. And you.”

“What would we do without you, Harry,” the woman said.

“What would I do without
you?
” he replied. “If anything changes, call me at once.”

They said their goodbyes and Harry got right on the phone. He first called Leah Craven, then Betty Lou Granger, explaining that he needed the prayer tree activated for their fellow parishioner. Next he called George at the café and asked if he had a frozen meal he’d be willing to donate to the family, as their time was consumed with hospital sitting and they probably couldn’t take the time to prepare a decent meal. Next he called Philana Toopeek, Tom’s mother, and asked if she might wish to throw some of her wonderful baked bread into the mix. She promised to
have her husband take it over to the family in need before the dinner hour. And then Harry took a moment, clasped his hands together atop a disastrous pile of bills and beseeched the Lord to care for their friend and brother in the hospital. The warmth of community love spread through him like a glow and he opened his eyes from prayer feeling stronger. As always.

But it only lasted for as long as it took him to remember that he was overdrawn at the bank and owed for cash advances on three credit cards.

This inability to manage his meager salary as a preacher had cost him his marriage. He and Brianna had started out in good shape. She drew a respectable salary as a schoolteacher and it balanced against his modest income quite well. They even managed a little savings toward their future together. But their biggest mistake was falling into that conservative old habit of letting the man manage the money. Harry was simply miserable at it. He always paid the higher interest as he juggled the bills, ended up wasting money on nonsense, invested in losers, passed by winners. Ultimately they were in a deep hole.

“We’ll just have to take the money out of our savings, Harry, and from now on, I’ll be paying the bills.”

He would never forget the look on her face when he told her there was no longer any savings. His investments were supposed to be sure things; they had been sure flops.

She was devastated. So they sold their house, paid off the debts, restocked the savings account and started over.

Harry had meant to surprise her by recouping the money. He found a couple of investments that should have paid off in less than six months. To hedge against failure, he spread the money around, a diversified and balanced portfolio. To his delight, a couple of his long shots came in high, doubling his investments, so he set up some margin calls. Then he had to liquidate a little to pay a debt. A couple of investments cratered and he liquidated other stocks to buy at a low, sold some stocks short and, wouldn’t you know, they came in high, causing him a loss. He had some markers called in, exercised a couple of margin calls, had some options come due…

“What?” she had screamed at him. “You
lost
the savings? Again?”

“It wasn’t supposed to go like that,” he’d said lamely.

So she left him. He could hardly blame her. It wasn’t a question of love, they loved each other still. And if they’d had children together, she would have set up a college fund and he would have blown it on some bet or investment or long shot that was supposed to pay off big. Every once in a while he thought his luck was changing, then wham! Down he’d tumble again.

If it weren’t for money, Harry would have a perfect life. He loved God, loved his church, loved
the people, loved the work. He was never happier or more at peace than when he was kneeling, or in a pulpit delivering a meaningful and uplifting message to the flock, or when helping someone with a problem or need. But too soon that part of his life would pass and he would grapple with paying the bills again.

He had a hundred bucks, an overdrawn checking account and credit card bills due. Grace Valley was a chance for a fresh start, if only he could turn things around. If he could just pay his bills, he’d never take another chance on anything. He’d hire one of those money-manager types who would collect his paycheck and dole out an allowance, and he’d never stray off his budget. Never.

He opened his top desk drawer and took out a racing form. It had worked before, it could work again. He had a really good tip on a horse. If he came in, he swore to
God
he wouldn’t place another bet. He punched the numbers on the phone.

Tom was alone in the police department, sitting at his desk in his office, which was the largest bedroom in the converted three-bedroom house. One deputy was on patrol and the other was resting so he could work that night. Tom, whose day had started even earlier than usual, was just thinking about lunch when he heard the tinkling of the bell on the front door. “Back here,” he yelled, pen poised over paper.

A loud snort that fell into a snore issued from one
of the two other bedrooms that had been converted into a cell. The bed was being used by Rob Gilmore. He’d had a little too much to drink the night before and his wife, Jennie, had locked him out of the house and called the police chief.

Tom looked up and waited. Whoever had come by was sure taking his time. Tom didn’t hear any footfalls, but he could hear the hallway floorboards squeak. He put his hand on his sidearm just in case, though being ambushed in his office was the last thing he expected.

At last Jim Post stood in the frame of the door. He gestured with a thumb over his shoulder. “What’s his story?” he asked.

“His wife put him out,” Tom answered.

“I can see why. Listen to that. Sounds horrible. Sure am glad I don’t sleep that loud.” The noise came again. “Jesus, how long has he been doing that?”

“Since I brought him in here at 4:30 a.m.”

Jim shook his head. “You must have nerves of steel.”

“I don’t get nearly the credit I deserve,” Tom pointed out with some humor.

Jim took another step into the office. “Got a minute?”

Tom threw down his pen and indicated one of the two chairs that faced his desk. Tom had only just met Jim, but in many ways he felt that he was an old friend. This was June’s man, for one thing, and June
was the closest thing to a best friend Tom had, excepting his wife, Ursula. Being the town cop, he did a lot of business with the town doctor. Additionally, they had grown up together. In fact, if Tom recalled correctly, they were blood brothers. That would have been before June realized she was a girl. The memory caused him to smile to himself.

“Something funny?” Jim asked.

“I was just remembering that once, when we were kids, June Hudson was my blood brother. We cut our hands and everything. And now she’s your… What is she? Your fiancée?”

“At the least,” Jim said.

Tom considered it a stroke of luck that he took to the guy June had chosen. Add to that, Jim Post had spent his career in law enforcement. Once they knew each other better, there would be stories to trade. Tom looked forward to that.

“There are a couple of things I want to talk to you about. Are we alone? Except for what’s-his-name in there?”

Tom nodded. “As long as you can hear him, he’s not listening to you.”

“Gotcha. Okay, number one. Confidentially, if you don’t mind. I’m retired DEA.”

“I know.”

The surprise registered on Jim’s face. “No, you don’t. You just guessed.”

He shrugged. “Have it your way. You were part of the raid last summer.”

More surprise. “Did June tell you that?”

Tom rested his elbows on his desk and leaned forward. “What do you think?”

He rubbed his chin and pursed his lips. “She told you about the gunshot wound. The late night visit to the clinic. And from there you made assumptions.”

“Actually, I have one or two reliable sources.”

“That makes me uncomfortable,” Jim admitted.

“Well, relax. We’re on the same side, after all.”

“I was mixing it up with some real badasses,” Jim admitted.

“Mostly behind bars now, thanks to you and a few others. The DEA brought in the army, for God’s sake. And those that slipped away aren’t going to hang around here.”

“Yeah, well, this is what we hope,” Jim said.

“I keep a pretty close watch on things,” Tom said, trying to reassure him. “See if you can relax. You have other matters to—”

“One more thing,” Jim said. “Did you happen to notice a pickup loaded with household goods parked at Sam Cussler’s gas station?”

“When?” Tom asked, which made it obvious he hadn’t seen it.

“When I was leaving the café with June to drive out to her aunt’s house, the truck was parked outside the garage. When I brought her back to the clinic just now, I noticed the truck
in
the garage. June and I happened upon that truck out on the road. It was disabled. The man’s wife was in labor
and June delivered her in the back of her own pickup. There are also two little girls. John Stone brought the ambulance and took everyone but the husband to the hospital while I bought him a new tire from Sam.”