Share the Moon Page 8

  A wary sensation roiled in his stomach. The kind you got before taking the biggest risk of your life.

  * * * *

  Sophie pretended to focus on scrubbing a metal pan while she eavesdropped on Tia, who sat curled on the sofa with the phone pressed to her ear.

  “Really, Dad? Florida? When?”

  Sophie stilled and listened more closely. Mike was a model father. His insensitive side was reserved for her, evident once again with the e-mail he’d sent two days ago.

  His offer to take the kids to Florida in January wasn’t a big issue. That he’d choose the anniversary date Henry would have turned twenty-five for the getaway, which left her sitting home alone wallowing in the sadness of the day, irked the hell out of her. She wrote back, requesting he consider a different date. So far, he hadn’t responded.

  Their son’s birthday should be just another day. On matters of Henry, though, common sense vanished. Anniversary dates knocked down barriers that kept her functioning the rest of the year. Matt and Tia also had a way of keeping her grounded in reality.

  Since their divorce, Mike’s approach toward Sophie bordered on bitter cold. Not a surprise given the attitude he’d carried the day he asked for the divorce, a moment from five years ago that shaped their current relationship.

  The problems had started in the morning, when she’d stumbled upon a nest of dead baby robins. The adult robins had skittered in the tree near the fallen nest, their nervous chirps asking why. Sophie had run inside sobbing and stowed away in bed with her head buried in a pillow to muffle her tears. Like the robins, Sophie had been left confused as to why her nest had been turned upside down and damaged, left to live with a smothering ache that reminded her she’d been cheated out of graduations, first jobs, and grandchildren.

  Later that night, Mike had quietly appeared at the bathroom door while she’d patted dry her freshly washed face.

  “Listen, Soph. Nothing can change what’s happened in our lives, but I’ve been trying to move forward.”

  She’d lowered the towel.

  His shoulders had sagged. He’d scrubbed the late day shadow on his chin with his palm and stared at the white tiled floor.

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “You’re holding me back.” He’d looked up and his eyes had glistened with tears. “I can’t live like this anymore.”

  “Are you asking for a divorce?”

  He’d nodded. “Something’s missing.” She’d never forget Mike’s hollow stare, a stark realization their love had completely dissolved. “Something besides Henry.”

  The numb layer formed over her skin for two years had cracked. Mike’s words had cut like a sharp stab of the truth. Henry had been the adhesive bonding them in forced matrimony. With his death, they’d come unglued.

  The confrontation had forced her to give better care to her two living children and seek professional help. It took some time, but last year her therapist said she’d reached the final stages of grief. Yet, Mike’s current disregard for the twenty-fifth anniversary of Henry’s birth stirred up old anger.

  She honed in on Tia’s excited chatter. “I get out of two days of school too! Cool.”

  Giving the dishwasher start button a tap, Sophie yawned, suddenly exhausted after the long drive to Hartford and the interview with Duncan. After close to an hour with him, she only had more questions to his vague responses. All the way home, she couldn’t forget how his nearness as they’d looked out the office window traveled straight to her core. Or how his “you don’t look like a tomboy anymore” remark made her nearly melt in her seat. There was always a chance he’d made the remark to throw her off-kilter, a reminder to approach him at all times with caution.

  Tia giggled and Sophie’s irritation with Mike returned. Maybe this double-dose of set-backs—losing the land and now the kids being gone on such a tough day—warranted a call to Dr. Keller, the therapist she’d seen right after Mike left. A rational, guiding hand couldn’t hurt.

  Bella, their wheat-colored terrier mix scoured the kitchen for leftover scraps. She crouched and stroked the dog’s strange blend of soft, wiry fur. “At least you won’t leave me that weekend, huh?” The dog’s tail swayed, but behind rich brown eyes, she begged for a handout. Sophie got her a treat.

  Tia galloped into the kitchen, long dark hair flapping with the breeze. She stopped her colt-like frame within inches of Sophie. “Dad’s going to take us to Disney World in January!”

  “Great.” Sophie faked an upbeat posture. “Did he give you the dates?”

  “Here.” Tia slapped a Post-it note on the front of the refrigerator. “Wait’ll Matt gets home and finds out.” She skipped down the hallway, sounding more like an elephant than a slender teenager.

  Same dates. What a coward. Couldn’t even tell her in person.

  She ripped off the sticky note, went to the desk in the living room, and slammed the Post-it on the cover of her planner. Next to the trip dates were the notes from her meeting with Duncan. Sophie’s anger veered in a new direction. If her vineyard plans were still in the works and he hadn’t taken Tate Farm from her, she’d bet her focus wouldn’t be on Henry’s birthday. Damn you, Duncan Jamieson!

  She clenched her hand into a fist, so tight her nails dug into her palm. Fury searched in all directions for another victim when it hit her…who was she really mad at? She had no idea.

  Chapter 8

  “Fourteen, fifteen…five more.”

  Sophie raised her shoulders for the grueling stomach crunch and tightened her abdomen beneath an oversized T-shirt. The militant exercise instructor at her Tuesday strength class continued the count, momentarily drowned out when a floor mat and a set of five pound weights landed with a loud thud on the tired gym floor to Sophie’s right.

  Bernadette plopped on top of the matt and whispered, “The other lawyers in my office loved your fluff piece on Duncan.”

  “It wasn’t a fluff piece.” She inhaled and continued with the count.

  “Oh, please. I’ll bet his Mommy taped the article to her fridge.”

  Sophie rolled her head to the side, where Bernadette stretched her long legs, covered in tight black yoga pants. Sophie poked her arm. “The piece was fair. We’ll talk afterward.”

  She tried to concentrate on the class, but Bernadette’s criticism badgered her. Writing the RGI article had pulled her in more directions than a wad of saltwater taffy. Her journalist’s ethics worked in overdrive, swerving from any possible bias.

  They exercised hard for the next thirty minutes and finally finished.

  “Jeesh, Bern.” Sophie stood and picked up her mat. “You’d already told me you weren’t thrilled with the story on Saturday. Are you done?”

  “Sorry. Dan Sawyer nudged me all day yesterday at work. You should have heard him.” She deepened her voice. “You couldn’t even get your best friend to write anything bad? I think you’re wrong about this project.” Her voice returned to normal. “God, I can’t stand him.”

  “He’s bugged you since ninth grade.” Meg lifted her mat and weights from the floor. “Let it go.”

  “She’s right.” Sophie grabbed her weights. “Besides, the facts were pretty clear and didn’t lead to anything negative.”

  “You could have pushed him about those bribes.”

  “I asked. He said no. Jeesh, did you want me to use torture?”

  Bernadette raised her brows. “You’d do that for me?”

  Sophie chuckled, but Meg just shook her head. They put away their equipment and headed to their cars in the back parking lot.

  Sophie zipped her sweatshirt and pulled her ponytail out from beneath the hood. She stopped near Meg’s slightly rusted Jeep. “There was something a bit odd, something I didn’t put in the paper.”

  Several ladies from class hurried past so Sophie lowered her voice. “Remember at our girl’s night Veronica said a Jamieson had lived on the lake way back when? She thought they had a problem
son?”

  They nodded in unison.

  “During the interview, Duncan mentioned they spent a couple of summers here when he was in middle school. He said we met at the tackle shop back then, but I don’t remember him.”

  Meg stopped searching through her oversized bag for her keys. “Really? How could you forget a hottie like him?”

  “He was around thirteen. I’m sure he looked different.”

  Bernadette’s thumb and index finger swirled the tip of her layered brown locks. She stared off into the distance, blinking. Her gaze drifted to meet Sophie’s. “Do you think Duncan caused the trouble Veronica heard her parents discussing?”

  “My Internet research shows he has a brother. I figured someone older than us might remember something.”

  “Ladies.” Meg’s round face brightened. “I think this is a case for the Northbridge Nancys.”

  Sophie warmed at memories of how one summer the close-knit gaggle of girls kicked off their Nancy Drew Marathon. Their over-active imaginations had stretched everyday situations into a mystery—the neighbor’s missing cat, an absent neighbor, or a newcomer around town all led to endless speculation. They’d baptized their group the Northbridge Nancys.

  Sophie laughed. “I could use some help.”

  “You know what they say.” Meg paused, like a comic waiting to deliver a punch line. “Great minds think alike.”

  Bernadette beamed, always proud when Meg got a saying correct. “How about some of your contacts, Meg? Like Mr. Wilson.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. He’ll love the added attention.” She started to search her bag again then stopped. “I swear, ever since he retired two years ago, he still spends half his week visiting the office. He needs to find friends at the senior center or something. Our receptionist looked ready to kill him the other day when he sat around reminiscing about old times while she tried to work.”

  Sophie glanced at her watch; she was falling behind schedule. “Guys, I’ve gotta run, but please keep this between us.”

  Meg’s fingers touched her mouth in a turnkey motion. “Mum’s a word.”

  Bernadette hesitated and Sophie waited for the correction. Instead, Bernadette made the same motion. “Yup. Mum’s a word.”

  * * * *

  Sophie trotted to the Gazette’s front entrance ten minutes late. She wrapped her corduroy blazer tight, the brisk air seeming colder than the forty degree temperature reported on the thermometer outside her kitchen window, not chilly enough for a real coat by her standards. The day her fingertips turned ice white marked the official start of winter.

  An old metal mailbox hung on the siding next to the front door of the old colonial. Sophie opened the rusted lid and removed a manila envelope. Large block letters spelled out “S. Shaw,” with no address or return information.

  She went inside and tossed the envelope on her desk, going straight to their single-cup coffeemaker in the kitchen. Popping in a pod of pumpkin-spice roast, she grabbed a thick ceramic mug from the cabinet, set it down on the small coffee tray, and pushed the button.

  “Morning, Sophie.” Cliff hollered a few seconds later from his upstairs office.

  “How’d you know it was me?” She yelled back, waiting for the cup to fill.

  He didn’t answer so she prepared her coffee then took it upstairs to Cliff’s office.

  Cliff held up the newspaper, folded to the sports page. He looked over the rims of his reading glasses. “I knew it was you because an old newsman like me notices the details.” He flipped his dark frames to his head and lowered the paper. “When Gabby arrives, she starts her computer before doing anything else.”

  “Remind me never to underestimate you.” She sat across from him. “Anything happening today?”

  “Nope. Just the way I like my job during Thanksgiving week. What are you working on?”

  “The elementary school has their annual Indian-Pilgrim show.” She sipped the fresh brew, breathing in the spicy autumn scent. “Bart’s joining me to take photos.”

  He crinkled his nose. “I hate those flavored coffees.”

  “I know.”

  “By the way, I got an early morning call from Duncan Jamieson. He liked your piece. Good work. We had a nice chat.” He picked up his newspaper and lifted a hand to the rims of his glasses.

  “Really. What’d you chat about?”

  Cliff stopped and left the glasses on his head. “Well, he hoped to work with you more.” He stared at her, blinked a few times then pressed his lips tight.

  “That’s a chat?” Cliff was a man of fewer words than most men. Gabby always said the task of pulling details from him required more dragging than her rake got during foliage season. Sophie rolled her hand several times for him to continue.

  He sighed, lowering the paper to the desk. “We discussed his move to Northbridge.”

  “And…”

  “We said we’d do lunch one day to discuss some ad revenue from the resort. Overall, he seems like a decent guy.”

  Sophie snorted. “Seems like an optimistic guy. They haven’t approved the zoning changes yet.”

  “Oh, and Duncan asked for you to call him. Wants to thank you personally. Said you have his number.”

  She stood. “You betcha. I’ve got his number all right.”

  Cliff grinned. “Let’s hope he’s got yours.”

  On the way to her desk, she had second thoughts about her strong defense of Duncan with Bernadette earlier. Somehow, both Sophie’s professional and personal feelings on this assignment had been dumped into the same pot then stirred into an inseparable mix. Did this issue influence her ability to report without a bias? Especially since her instincts warned that Duncan’s intentions in Northbridge came with a secondary agenda. She’d need to up her guard around him.

  Confident or corrupt, which was he?

  Sophie went to her Rolodex for the business card Duncan had given her with his direct line. At least she no longer had to be channeled through Carl Hansen.

  She dialed. The phone rang while she tore open the thin manila envelope left in the mailbox. Sophie removed two sheets of paper.

  The phone clicked into a recording of Duncan’s familiar voice. She compiled a response while glancing at the words on the paper, but the written message made her freeze and she hung up.

  * * * *

  Sophie’s adrenaline worked overtime as she sat inside her car and waited for the Northbridge Library to open. The mother lode of leads had been dumped right at the newspaper’s front door. By whom or their reason why was unclear. Again she studied the contents of the envelope left at the Gazette offices.

  The first of two sheets contained cut-out letters from magazines and newspaper clippings that spelled out a warning:

  The Jamiesons are corrupt. Both now and in the past. Question the gunshot.

  She flipped to the second sheet, a printout from the July 1981 edition of the Blue Moon Gazette. Yellow highlighter marked a story under the police blotter section with the lead-in, “Shots Fired at House.” She reread each word.

  On July 26 at 8:05 PM police were called out to the house of Daniel “Buzz” Harris, 32 Lakeview Circle, after neighbors reported hearing gunshots coming from inside the home. When police arrived, Mr. Harris said he’d inadvertently pulled the trigger on his gun, believing the safety was on, while he cleaned it.

  Several markings on the bottom of the printout proved the story came from the Northbridge library microfiche and showed the date it was printed. She hoped Veronica, who’d been director here for the past ten years, arrived early and had time to help her find out who unlocked the microfiche cabinet the day this paper printed. Then she might know who wanted her to have this information.

  Before she’d left the paper, Cliff called a buddy who worked in the Land Department to confirm when the Jamiesons sold their house. The 1982 sale date confirmed they’d owned it at the time of the gunshot. Whether or not they were physically here
was another matter.

  The pieces of a trail were beginning to fall into place. This note gave some credibility to the rumor Bernadette made public at the hearing. It didn’t have to do with the current land deal, but it suggested the Jamieson brood had a history of corruptness.

  Some of the control Sophie had lost over her future when RGI barged in and flashed their money at the Tates now seemed within her grasp. A little digging might uncover just enough of the truth to make RGI uncomfortable hanging out in town. Maybe they’d pull their offer. Otis and Elmer would be at her door begging for her family’s offer to resurface. She could even renegotiate a lower price to make up for all her troubles.

  The front door to the hundred-and-fifty-year-old white clapboard house-turned-library finally opened. Sophie hurried straight to Veronica’s corner office. “Surprise!”

  Veronica glanced up from her computer screen, looking classy in a black cashmere sweater, a scarlet polished finger wrapped around pearls. “Hey. Didn’t expect to see you today. What’s going on?”

  “Take a look at this. At the bottom.” She handed Veronica the printout of the gunshot story. “This came off the fiche machine here, right?”

  Veronica nodded. “Indeed it did. Five days ago, at two-o-seven in the afternoon, from printer number two. Why?”

  “Any idea who manned the back desk that day? I’d like to find out who requested the old Gazette microfiche.”

  Veronica clicked a few keys on the computer. “Mrs. Payne. She’s there now. Go and ask. A word of warning. She can recall the name of every single student over her forty year career but forgets things that happened five minutes earlier.”

  Sophie headed to the rear of the library where the eighty-seven-year-old former elementary teacher stretched on her tiptoes trying to shelve a book. Her arched back appeared to make the act quite difficult.

  Sophie hurried over. “Hi, Mrs. Payne. Let me do that.”