“I’m sorry we have to pull things apart like that, but—” Rich started.

“I know. It’s your job.” Nicole waved the sheaf of clippings. “This is a tragic story.”

“Very.” He didn’t add that the Ellings’ legacy of sorrow—mostly self-inflicted—seemed to be passed from one generation to the next.

“Looks like you decided those old records are of interest.” She nodded toward the two boxes he carried and the ones his deputies were loading in the back of the SUV.

“Just taking another long shot.” He smiled at her.

She smiled back. Not very wide and a bit ruefully, but the minor thaw sent his pulse trip-hammering. What might a full-blown grin from her do to his insides? As he stowed his boxes in the SUV, he prayed that he never had to arrest her grandmother and rob himself forever of the chance to find out.

JILL ELIZABETH NELSON

writes what she likes to read—faith-based tales of adventure seasoned with romance. By day she operates as housing manager for a seniors’ apartment complex. By night she turns into a wild and crazy writer who can hardly wait to jot down all the exciting things her characters are telling her, so she can share them with her readers. More about Jill and her books can be found at www.jillelizabethnelson.com. She and her husband live in rural Minnesota, surrounded by the woods and prairie and their four grown children who have settled nearby.

Legacy of Lies
Jill Elizabeth Nelson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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A little while, and the wicked will be no more; Though you look for them, they will not be found. But the meek will inherit the land and enjoy great peace.

—Psalms 37:10–11

To those who hope steadfastly in the Lord for justice to prevail and righteousness and truth to reign.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

EPILOGUE

LETTER TO READER

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

ONE

“Over my dead body!” Nicole Mattson’s grandmother whirled away from the stove and planted wire-veined hands on plump hips. “Jan’s Sewing Room has sold fabric, patterns and sewing notions for sixty years. I’m not about to toss that heritage out the door to convert to this new-fangled machine embroidery.” She said the final words with a twist to her lips that suggested she’d tasted something nasty.

Nicole finished shredding lettuce into a bowl and turned from the counter, wiping her hands on a towel. Her gaze met her grandmother’s glare. Hopefully, her own eyes contained the winsome mix of firm reason and gentle persuasion she was striving for, rather than the frustration she was trying to hide.

“I’m not saying we should throw all the conventional sewing materials out,” she said, “but we need to pare that inventory down and make room for machines that will produce items people will buy in volume. We could market jackets and T-shirts and sweatshirts to schools, businesses, service organizations, churches…” She waved an expansive hand.

Her grandmother sniffed. “But what about the clientele I’ve built up over a lifetime? They want a quiet place to browse for creative projects—not mindless boilerplate logos and images.”

Gritting her teeth, Nicole began chopping fresh vegetables for the salad. Nothing she’d said so far had convinced Grandma Jan that computers and machines could mix with creativity. Maybe the financial approach would work.

“I’ve studied the shop’s books,” Nicole said. “J.S.R. hasn’t turned a profit in this century.” She stopped herself from adding that if the house and shop weren’t owned free and clear, and if Grandpa, former president of one of the two banks in town, hadn’t left his wife well-fixed, the stubborn woman might be out in the street. “Let the machine embroidery end of the business be my thing. If I’m going to live here, I need to support myself.”

A little of the stiffness drained from her grandmother’s posture. “Give yourself time to recover from the loss of your husband before you get all caught up in making a living, honey. It’s been barely six months since Glen was killed. I remember it took me more than a year to have a clear thought in my head after your grandpa passed. That’s why I invited you to come stay with me. We widows need to take care of each other, and the shop will take care of us. It always has.” She went back to tending the meat hissing in her frying pan. “Business will pick up. You’ll see. In this economy, more people will think about making their own clothes.”

Nicole swallowed a sharp answer. Grandma was living in ancient history if she thought many women were going to add sewing clothes for the family to their hectic schedule, especially when most needed to hold down jobs outside the home. Besides, handmade clothing wasn’t that much cheaper than store-bought anymore. Not that her grandmother would realize such a thing when she continued to sew her own slacks, blouses and dresses. No jeans or T-shirts for Janet Keller, though they were Nicole’s favorite garb.

Grandma commenced humming as she added salt to boiling potatoes. Nicole finished the salad, set it on the table and slipped out the back door onto the small deck. The muggy warmth of a summer evening embraced her. The humidity was preferable to the heavy aroma of side pork frying in grease. No wonder Grandma’s cholesterol was sky-high. And in the last couple of weeks since Nicole arrived in the little town of Ellington, the woman claimed her granddaughter was too thin and needed plumping up. One more excuse to defy doctor’s orders and refuse to change her diet. Nicole grimaced.

Grandma would give a soul in need the shirt off her back—or hand-make them one—but if there was an award for being set in one’s ways, she would win it. Every change was always “over my dead body.” Nicole ran splayed fingers through thick, dark hair and released a long sigh.

Her gaze scanned the quiet residential neighborhood in the small town of Ellington. A few of the 1920s bungalows had aged less gracefully than the Keller home, the oldest house in the neighborhood and the only towering colonial. Typical of the Kellers to march to a different drummer, but they paid meticulous care to what they owned. Not that anyone’s property was particularly attractive at the moment. The paving, curbs and gutters had recently been torn off the streets to allow replacement of the underground water and sewer pipes, leaving rutted dirt tracks and, in some places, freshly dug pits instead of roads. Navigation was a challenge in any direction from this corner lot. A distant boom echoed. The big equipment worked on into the evening in another area of town.

A pervasive sadness sifted through Nicole. Change happened whether a person planned it or not—and not always for the good. An image of Glen in his uniform, flashing his winsome grin, darted past her mind’s eye. She huffed against a stab of pain in her chest where her heart should be. That organ had felt cold and dead since the sun-bright winter day Glen’s captain showed up on her doorstep in full-dress blues, hat in hand.

Melancholy pressed Nicole onto a chair on the deck. When she was growing up and her parents brought her to visit Grandma Jan and Grandpa Frank in this west-central Minnesota town, the lawn was a living carpet of thick grass, thriving plants and lush flowerbeds. Since Grandpa’s death a decade ago, when Nicole was twenty-two—a young woman barely wed!—the plants had disappeared one by one, and the flowerbeds had shrunk to a few clumps of petunias here and there. Grandma was not the green thumb in the family, though she’d done her best to maintain Grandpa’s beloved rose garden that lined the property along Tenth Street.

At least until this year.

Now the garden looked like some razor-toothed monster had chomped a bite out of it and gouged a trench in the earth up to the house. The gaping hole was part of the city infrastructure project to install new water and sewer lines. Out on the road, the early-evening breeze puffed dust clouds into the air. Across the street, a neighbor emerged from his house, lifted a lazy hand in greeting and ambled toward his garage.

Nicole rose and trod down the three steps onto the grass, then wandered along the edge of the trench until she reached the pitiful remains of Grandpa’s beloved roses. A magnificent grandiflora and a prolific white floribunda survived on one side of the gouge in the earth. On the other, several bushes of miniature roses held their blossoms up toward the waning sun. But the trellis with its pink Bourbon climbing roses and most of the hybrid teas, including her grandfather’s favorite yellow roses, were gone. This plot of ground had meant so much to him. It was a shame to see it ruined. Maybe when the city project was finished, she could try her hand at restoring the garden. Surely her grandmother wouldn’t object to that!

Birdsong teased her ears from a spreading maple tree a few yards behind her. Dappled sunlight reached the trench through the leafy fringes of the tree. As the warm breeze rippled the branches, a pale gleam winked at her from the dirt wall near the bottom of the hole. Nicole bent, hands on knees, and looked closer. Crinkles of dirty white plastic poked out one side wall of the trench. The plastic was at least as wide as her grandmother’s antiquated microwave oven, but only about as high as a loaf of bread.

Was this the final resting place of Grandpa’s boyhood dog, Lad? Grandpa had, after all, grown up in this house. If so, it was funny he’d never mentioned the beloved mutt was buried here. But it did help explain his obsession with keeping up the rose garden. Then again, that theory could be completely off, and the plastic could contain anything from junk to treasure.

Curiosity nibbled at Nicole. She didn’t really care to uncover some old dog bones, but what if it were something more interesting, maybe even valuable. Should she wait until the workers came back tomorrow and ask them to unearth the item? She shook her head. Nah! She wouldn’t sleep a wink tonight for wondering, so she might as well solve the mystery right now.

Nicole went to the garage and returned with one of her grandfather’s gardening trowels. The trench was only a few feet deep, so she hopped in and went to work. A little grunting, sweaty work later she pulled out what turned out to be a package wrapped in a plastic sack—probably a garbage bag. Whatever was inside had some bulk, but was almost as light as air. Probably not a bag of gold then. She smiled at her own absurdity.

The digging machine had caught an edge of the sack and made a rip in the plastic. Standing in the trench, Nicole hooked her finger in the hole and tore the opening wide to expose a bundle of deep blue fabric. A small, faded tag caught her eye. Gingerly, she touched the fragile bit of paper and leaned over the markings. A faint musky smell brushed her nostrils, and her eyes widened. Enough of the letters remained legible to make out the words Jan’s Sewing Room. Whatever was in here had been wrapped in yard goods from her grandmother’s store.

A chill feathered across Nicole’s skin. Suddenly, she wasn’t so eager to see what was inside. But she was in this too far; she had to look now. Gently, Nicole rolled the package over and over, releasing layers of fabric. Finally, the contents lay plain to see.

Oxygen fled her lungs. She blinked and stared.

Not a dog. No, not at all.

Someone had buried a baby in her grandparents’ backyard!

Nicole’s head swam, and she gripped the side of the trench, whimpering. Her fingers clawed into the cool earth. Could Grandma Jan have had a miscarriage or a stillbirth? But wouldn’t those remains be placed in a cemetery with an official headstone? No whisper of such a family tragedy had reached her ears as she grew up. How about an abortion? Nicole shook her head. These remains were too large for some furtive termination of a rejected pregnancy. This child had probably been at least several months old. And he or she must have been buried here for a long time. Had Grandpa known what precious treasure lay beneath his roses?

What kind of question was that? She shook herself. Of course, Grandpa couldn’t have known. He would never have—

“Nicole, I’ve been calling you to come in for supper. I—” Her grandmother’s voice behind her ended in a sharp gasp.

Time suspended like a clock’s pendulum gone still.

Nicole finally sucked in a breath, as Grandma Jan let out a shrill cry.

“Oh, no!” The elderly woman’s cracked wail held every second of her seventy-five years of existence. “I can’t believe it! I never thought… It can’t be.”

Nicole turned to find her grandmother scuttling away in a half crouch, as if someone had struck her in the stomach, but she must ignore the pain and flee. Grandma was clearly surprised the remains were in her yard, yet she knew something about them. What?

Nicole heaved herself out of the trench and followed, calling for her grandmother to stop. The woman didn’t acknowledge that she’d heard. Nicole trailed her through the kitchen and up the hallway. The older woman could move surprisingly fast. Grandma darted into her bedroom, and slammed the door in Nicole’s face, barely missing her nose.

Nicole gaped at the closed portal. “What’s going on? Whose remains are those?”

“I’m not sure, dear.” The thin response carried faintly.

The sound of drawers slamming and the rustling of papers reached Nicole’s ears. What was her grandmother looking for?

“I have to call the police.” Nicole leaned her forehead against the door panel.

“Do what you need to do, honey. Let me be, now.”

On reluctant feet, Nicole went to the kitchen and lifted the telephone receiver. Why was her grandmother lying to her? And what was she rummaging for in the bedroom? Something to do with the child in the rose garden?

Nicole had come to the quiet community of Ellington—to this home she’d known as a haven since childhood—in order to rebuild her life after a devastating loss. More than that, she’d come to look after her only close living relative in the waning years of the woman’s life. What might happen to both of them the minute she placed this phone call to the police station?

Police Chief Rich Hendricks caught the coded call-out from the dispatcher on his police scanner at home. He immediately phoned the station for details not given over the radio, and then abandoned his half-eaten, fast-food cheese-burger. Small loss. No fun scarfing down meals alone all the time anyway. With his wife, Karen, having passed away three years ago and his daughter, Katrina, newly graduated and off to summer Bible camp as a counselor, life had turned pretty blah. A case like this broke up the routine big-time, but it wasn’t the kind of excitement he welcomed.

A baby’s bones found in a trench? When he took the chief job here in Ellington, he researched the town, particularly the criminal history. This little burg hadn’t had a mystery this big since Simon Elling’s infant son was kidnapped in 1957 and never recovered. Had the child just been found? And in the Kellers’ backyard, no less!

Bouncing over the rough terrain on the dug-up streets, Rich’s SUV turned onto Tenth Street. The Keller colonial lay up ahead. Looked as if he was the first unit on the scene, but then, he only lived a few blocks away.

A slender, dark-haired woman stood slump-shouldered beside a bundle on the ground. Nicole Mattson, Jan’s granddaughter. She moved to town only a couple of weeks ago, presumably to start a new life a few months after her Minneapolis police-officer husband was killed in a shoot-out with a team of serial bank robbers. The guy was a bonafide hero, decorated and everything, but that didn’t make Nicole any less a widow. He sympathized.

Welcome to Ellington.

Rich snorted. This was not the way he’d hoped to be introduced to this woman. He’d been eyeing her from afar, giving her space to settle in and time for the sharpest pangs of loss to subside. Since Karen’s passing, Nicole was the first female to spark his interest in dating again…and now he had to approach her in cop mode.

He cruised the SUV to the nonexistent curb, grabbed his interview notebook and got out. She gazed at him, brow furrowed above deep brown eyes. He glanced down at his jeans and Minnesota Vikings T-shirt.

“Sorry.” He sent her a muted smile. “This caught me off duty at home. You must be Nicole, Jan’s granddaughter. I’m Police Chief Rich Hendricks.” He held out his hand.

She took it with a surprisingly firm grip for such a delicate hand and petite frame. Her brown eyes held equal parts sorrow and strength. Nothing squeamish about her, but then she’d been a cop’s wife, and her dad, Jan and Frank’s son, had been a cop, as well. At least, he wouldn’t have to deal with feminine hysterics. He liked her already, though she hadn’t said a word.

“This is what I found.” She pointed toward the bundle at her feet. “I dug it out of there.” She motioned toward a gap in the soil near the bottom of the trench.

Rich narrowed his gaze. The remains hadn’t been buried very deep—only about three feet. He made a note in his book, and then squatted beside the dirt-crusted bundle. A plastic object lay on the fabric. He nudged it with the end of his pen, and it rattled. A baby’s toy. It looked like the rattle had once been blue and white. The bits of clothing that survived might possibly have been red.

“The remains were wound tightly in the yard goods,” Nicole volunteered. “I unwrapped it having no idea I’d find something like this!”

Rich nodded her direction. “You did fine. How could you guess?”

Nicole squatted beside him. “What’s that?” She pointed to another object in the bundle, partially covered by cloth.

Rich nudged the item into view—a small metal cross. That and the careful shroudlike wrapping sent a message: whoever buried the child either felt remorse or actually cared for the infant.

A tag on the fabric caught his eye. He leaned close and made out the store label. His gaze met Nicole’s, but she looked away quickly. Not fast enough to hide the confusion and fear playing across her face. She was afraid her grandmother had something to do with this. A logical conclusion, given the circumstances. He needed to talk to Jan Keller right away.

He rose, Nicole beside him, and swiveled toward the sound of approaching vehicles. A police sedan, followed by the VW Jetta driven by one of their local doctors, pulled up behind his SUV. Rich’s lanky deputy, Terry Bender, climbed out of the sedan, cowboy boots first, beneath uniform slacks.

“Bring the yellow tape,” Rich called to him. “We’ll have to cordon off the area.”

The deputy shot him a thumbs-up and ducked back inside his car. Dr. Sharla Mead approached, carrying her kit. The pear-shaped woman around Rich’s own age of thirty-nine was the county medical examiner, as well as chief of staff at the small Ellington hospital.

The doctor gazed down at the bundle and shook her head. “I’ll do my best with COD, but you’ll need a forensics specialist out here to examine the whole package.”

Rich nodded. “Do what you can. Terry will give you a hand. I’ll call someone in from the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. This kind of case ought to be right up their alley.” Sharla nodded, and Rich turned toward Nicole. “Is your grandmother around? We need to visit.”

White-faced, Nicole nodded. “She’s in the house. Come with me.”

He’d follow her graceful form anywhere, any day, but interviewing a local senior citizen about a long-dead infant in her yard was not on his list of fun things to do, especially with an attractive woman around. They entered the back door into the kitchen. Jan Keller was seated at the table with her face in her hands. A full meal lay before her—meat congealing in its own grease, mashed potatoes, salad—but the dinner plates were clean and empty. Not surprising that no one had an appetite.

Jan looked up, her craggy face set in stone, though a suspicion of wetness smeared her cheeks. “I know you’ve gotta do your duty and ask all sorts of questions, Rich, but you could just as well save your breath. I can’t tell you one thing that will help.”

Rich opened his notebook. Did she mean can’t because she had no idea how the infant ended up buried beneath the rose garden, or can’t because she won’t spill what she knows? His gaze bored into hers, and color gradually seeped from her face. Her stare hid fear, or he’d eat his badge.

He groaned inwardly. If Jan Keller had been involved in what could well be the Elling infant’s kidnapping and murder, he’d have to arrest a pillar of the community, and she’d spend her waning years in the penitentiary.

His gaze shifted to Nicole, who leaned her back against the counter, arms crossed. The parted lips, pinched nostrils and wide eyes telegraphed desperation. If he took from her life the last bit of family she possessed, he could kiss any dream of romance goodbye.

TWO

Rich stood next to the trench and closed his cell phone, having finished speaking to a liaison at the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. Janet Keller hadn’t told him a thing, but maybe the physical evidence would. A forensics tech from the MBCA would be here in the morning. Dr. Mead was transporting the remains to the hospital where they would await the tech’s arrival.

“Keep the crime-scene tape up and cover the trench with a tarp,” Rich told Terry. “The tech might want to collect soil or check for other evidence from the site.”

“Sure thing, Chief.” His deputy grinned. “Don’t mind hangin’ around a little longer. Maybe catch another glimpse of that Keller girl. I remember when this pint-size squirt in pigtails used to visit her grandparents. She sure did grow up into somethin’ to look at.”

Rich frowned. “I didn’t live in Ellington that long ago, and you must’ve been a grown man already back then.”

“You sayin’ I’m too old for her?” The grin faded. “You’re not much younger than me, and I can tell you’re not immune to the lady’s charms.”

Rich didn’t bother to mention that he was more than half a decade younger than his deputy. The guy already had a hard time accepting him as boss without rubbing in the age difference. “I’m saying you’ve been in law enforcement too long to let a pretty face distract you.”

Terry chuckled, but there was an edge to the sound. “A pretty face doesn’t distract me but it always attracts me.”

Pressing his lips together, Rich waved to Terry and headed for his SUV. If Nicole fell for Terry’s lines, she wasn’t the woman he figured her for. Right now, he’d better concentrate on his duty. He climbed into his vehicle and checked his watch. Going on 8:00 p.m. But this set of interviews couldn’t wait until tomorrow. By then, rumors would be running rampant and catching a fresh reaction would be impossible.

Rich turned his vehicle toward the west and the house on the hill. Perched on the highest bump on this stretch of prairie, the Elling mansion brooded over the town like a disapproving parent. Simon Elling, the current patriarch of the founding family, lived there with his wife and assorted relatives. A sparse and motley crew, far from their heyday as the landed gentry of the county, when Ellings occupied most farmhouses within a thirty-mile radius. But they hadn’t lost a bit of their arrogance despite their dwindling numbers. This visit promised to be interesting.

He turned into the driveway that took him toward the circular drive in front of a three-story brick structure that rambled across half an acre of brown-patched lawn. The grass was faintly shaggy and the trees old and balding. The Ellings hadn’t employed a yardman in years. He stopped the vehicle near the set of broad stone steps that led to the front doors.

Pressing the doorbell button brought no sound or response from inside, so Rich gave the door sharp raps. Soon a panel swung ajar, and a statuesque woman with a pale, cold face stared out at him. The pulled shape of her gray-blue eyes betrayed one too many face-lifts. He wasn’t much of a judge of clothing, but he was pretty certain her silky-looking blouse and form-fitting pants cost more than Daddy would be happy to pay—as soon as he saw the credit-card bill. As far as Rich knew, Simon’s fiftysomething daughter hadn’t worked a day in her life, but she always dressed as if she lived around the corner from a New York boutique.

“Hi, Melody. Is your father in?”

Her artificially plump lips thinned. “What’s Mason done now?”

“This isn’t about your son.”

Her eyes widened. “It’s not?”

He didn’t blame Melody for being surprised. “I need to talk to Simon regarding a matter that’s just come up.”

“Can’t this wait until tomorrow? The old man’s locked himself in his study again.” One side of her mouth twisted into a sneer, a typical expression of this thrice-divorced former beauty queen.

“This isn’t a social call. It’s urgent.”

Melody shrugged one shoulder and motioned him inside. “Take your chances, then.”

He stepped into an enormous foyer with a vaulted ceiling. The westering sun poured a river of light through the stained glass in the fan window above the doors and sprinkled rainbow colors over a scuffed tile floor. A large Terry Redlin painting hung over an entry table along the wall, but it was a print. If they’d once owned the original, it had been sold long ago. Rich followed Melody’s designer-clad form up a hallway, where another pair of double doors confronted him.

“Just give a knock and see what happens.” Melody snickered and walked away.

Rich tapped with his knuckles. “Simon. It’s Chief Hendricks. I need to talk to you.”

Seconds later, a lock rattled and the door flung wide. A tall, sharp-faced man in his late seventies glared out at him. He cradled a brandy snifter a quarter full of dark liquid in one hand. “What’s that worthless grandson of mine done now?”

Rich stifled a sigh. “Whatever he’s up to, we’ll catch him, but this visit isn’t about him. The remains of an infant have been found buried in a shallow grave.”

“Where?” The snifter froze halfway to Simon’s mouth.

“In town.”

“A recent burial?”

“Old.”

Simon’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Come in.”

The study sprawled in faded elegance. Spacious dimensions, a long wet bar and a coffered ceiling clamored privilege and power, but thin spots on the carpet and the worn chairs angled toward the cold fireplace betrayed tight times. Simon led the way to a massive mahogany desk and plopped into a leather chair behind it, motioning for his guest to sit in the chair on the other side. Rich remained standing, the better to observe the man at the desk. Simon’s free hand gripped the arm of his chair is if he thought it might suddenly buck like a bronco.

“Details,” the senior Elling barked.

“Not many yet. The body was buried beneath Janet Keller’s rose garden.” That much would be common knowledge in less than a day around this small town. He withheld the information that the bones had been wrapped in yard goods from Jan’s Sewing Room.

Simon sat up stiff. “You don’t suppose Jan or Frank had anything to do with the kidnapping?”

“It’s too soon to suppose anything. We don’t even know for sure whose remains those bones are. Do you have any reason to think either of the Kellers might have taken your child? Bad blood of any kind? Raw business dealings?”

Simon croaked a laugh. “Those two do-gooders? Frank and I cordially disliked each other. No run-ins, just a different way of seeing the world. One reason we never did business together, and I kept our money at the other bank.”

“All right.” Rich opened his notebook. “I need to ask you a few questions to help identify the remains.”

“Go ahead.” The words held a note of caution.

The man sounded reluctant. Why? Shouldn’t a bereaved father be eager to identify the remains of his only son?

Nicole guided her car aimlessly through the streets of Ellington, gradually drifting toward the western edge of town. She couldn’t stay in the house with her stubbornly silent grandmother one more moment. And a step outside meant viewing yellow crime-scene tape flapping in the breeze. That lovely rose garden had masked a clandestine burial site all these years. Did Grandpa Frank know? How could he? How could he not? Maybe the patch of ground had been precious to him because of what lay beneath, not what was planted on top.

On her right, the town graveyard slid past. The baby’s remains should have been buried there in dignity. Maybe now the little body would find a proper resting place. But what name would be chiseled on the headstone?

Ahead loomed the fortresslike Elling home. Many folks thought the place grand. Nicole begged to differ. The brick structure resembled a prison more than a home. Even as a child, when her family visited Grandma and Grandpa, and she ran free with the town children, she’d sensed the place wasn’t built to welcome folks. It seemed fashioned to hide whatever went on within those thick walls.

The sun dipping toward the horizon picked a glint of red from the top of a black-and-white SUV parked in front of the massive entrance doors at the end of the long driveway. What brought the police chief straight from the bones found at the Keller property to the imposing Elling mansion?

Rich Hendrick’s tall, solid frame and bold features appeared in her mind’s eye. His green-gold gaze had peered into her soul, seen everything and revealed nothing. Or that’s the impression the cop look gave. Nicole knew better, but she’d felt exposed all the same. What if he discerned something that would prove one or both of her grandparents a baby killer? A tiny squeak escaped her tight throat. That was nonsense. Somebody other than Frank or Jan Keller had buried that child. Surely, Rich could see that. Anyone who knew her grandparents would laugh the notion to scorn. Wouldn’t they?

While she’d knelt next to him near the grave wrappings, his clean scent and gentle tone had touched an empty, aching place in Nicole’s heart. And the silver at the temples of his close-cut sandy hair had begged to be touched. He hadn’t been wearing a wedding ring.

She swallowed. Hard. Idiot! What was the matter with her?

Nicole turned the car onto a road at right angles to the Elling property and puffed out a long breath. Glen had been gone only six months. Wasn’t it too soon to feel attraction for someone else? Besides, she’d vowed never again to get involved with a cop…or any man with a high-risk occupation. Nicole shook herself and squeezed the steering wheel. The shock of her discovery must have made her a little loony.

A thick planting of trees screened the side of the Elling mansion from view. Nicole turned onto a narrow, paved county road that skirted the rear of the large property. The tree line thinned here, and she glimpsed patches of flower-garden colors contrasted against the weathered red brick of the building. A weed-edged approach beckoned between a gap in the trees. Nicole wheeled her small car into the dirt track and stopped, facing the Elling home.

Crossing her arms over the steering wheel, Nicole leaned her chin on one forearm and squinted toward the garden that looked as if it had been left to grow wild. Weed-green poked up amidst the white heads of Shasta daisies and orange tiger lilies. Ivy groped along the face of the building, tendrils drooping over windowpanes like shaggy lashes above dark, brooding eyes. With its location next to the graveyard and unkempt appearance, no wonder the town kids made up stories about this place.

What had she been told one moonlit night when she hung out in a neighboring kid’s tree house? They sat in a tight circle, five of them, foreheads nearly touching, warm breath mingling, as ghost stories whispered from lip to lip. “There’s a boogeyman in the Ellings’ basement,” lisped one sharp, eager face. “He steals babies and eats them!”

A remembered shiver passed down Nicole’s spine. So deliciously frightening then, so silly now. Or maybe not. Her pulse stalled as images of an infant’s remains flashed through her mind. Only the child hadn’t been found here. Yet the police chief shot straight to the boogeyman’s lair. Was there some nugget of truth in the small-town legend?

Her gaze swept the property. In the midst of the garden, a slumped figure caught her eye, and she stared. A person, yes, but limp and still on a bench. The head hung low, face covered by what looked like a dark shroud. The figure’s shoulders drooped, arms flopped to the sides, as if some life-size rag doll had been flung onto the bench.

Swallowing a sour taste, Nicole eased out of her car and shut the door. The sound drew no movement from the hunched form on the bench. Was the person all right? Did they need help? Nicole’s legs carried her without conscious command toward the garden. Breath labored in and out of tight lungs. She prayed she wasn’t about to discover another dead body.

Rich held his expression deadpan. “Do you recall what your boy was wearing when he disappeared?”

A blank stare answered him. “Can’t say that I do.” Simon pursed his lips.

Rich nodded and made a notation. Of course, a guy not remembering what someone was wearing didn’t strike him as too surprising.

“How about if any object went missing with him?” Rich held his pen poised.

The man’s forehead wound into a knot of wrinkles. “I seem to remember something about an item, but can’t recall what it was.” He polished off his drink then surged to his feet and stalked toward the wet bar. “Can I get you anything?”

“Sorry. I’m on duty.”

Simon snickered. “You wouldn’t drink with me anyway.”

Rich let silence speak for him.

Simon lifted a decanter and brown liquid glugged into the snifter. “We paid the ransom, and do you know what we got in return?” A muscle twitched in his cheek. “Bubkes!” Simon charged toward the desk, flesh a mottled red. “When a man sinks his whole world into an heir, he ought to get him back, don’t you think?”

Rich held himself motionless as Simon ground to a halt inches from his position. The man was almost as tall as Rich, but all bone and sinew, as if his almost eighty years of life had drained the juices from him.

“An heir to carry on the name may not mean much to most people.”

Rich’s skin tightened. Simon may as well have said peons instead of people. No wonder this whole family set his teeth on edge.

“But the Ellings must have a namesake!” Simon’s hiss blew a waft of booze-breath, and Rich took a step back.

The words sounded like a litany Simon rehearsed often in his head, probably passed down from male heir to male heir. Rich made a note on his pad. He hated to break it to the guy, but there weren’t any namesakes running around this mausoleum. Nicole Keller may have unearthed the last of the line in her grandparents’ backyard.

Who put the child there—and why—was Rich’s business to find out, and Simon’s reaction sounded…off. He didn’t hear fatherly grief in this man’s tone. More like an investor’s outrage at a swindle. He’d known Simon was a hard man, but this hard?

Nicole’s steps slowed as she neared the hunched figure who sat on a wooden bench beneath the shade of a maple tree. Nicole stopped on the weed-grown remnants of a stone path a few feet away and held her breath. The ample figure indicated that the person was female. She wore a vintage 1950s dress with a wide Peter Pan collar and a full, swing skirt. Nicole wouldn’t be surprised if there was a crinoline beneath it. Only one person in town dressed as if they’d never left the era of saddle shoes—Hannah Breyer, Fern Elling’s sister. And thank goodness, the woman’s chest moved up and down with even breaths. Hannah was asleep, not dead, and the shroud over her face was merely a dark scarf flopped forward in her sleep.

Nicole slowly exhaled. She’d leave Hannah to her nap. Pivoting, Nicole’s shoes scraped against the dirt coating the paving stones, and a breath stuttered behind her.

“What?… Oh, my. Who are you?”

Heart sinking, Nicole turned toward Hannah. The woman brushed her scarf out of her face and back on top of her gray curls. Faded-green eyes squinted up at the intruder.

“I’m sorry to disturb you.” Nicole lifted apologetic hands. “It’s Nicole Mattson. Er, you probably know me as Keller. I thought…” She hesitated. “You looked…” How did she tell the other woman she’d mistaken her for dead? “Oh, never mind. I was just passing by and stopped to check on you.”

“Keller? Really?” A debutante’s giggle left Hannah’s throat. “How kind of you. Not many folks around here check on this old gal. Have a seat.” She patted the bench beside her.

Nicole glanced toward her car, half hidden in the trees, and then back toward Hannah. The poor thing looked so hopeful for human companionship, Nicole didn’t have the heart to turn her down, even though her feet wanted to carry her back to her vehicle. She settled on the edge of the bench. A faint lilac scent drifted to her from the other woman.

“Tell me about yourself, Nicole Keller.” Hannah’s pudgy hand patted Nicole’s knee. “My, you’ve gotten grown up. Are you visiting your grandparents, like usual?”

Nicole stiffened and met Hannah’s open gaze. The older woman remembered her? To Nicole’s knowledge, they’d only met once, and that was by accident years ago. “I’m staying with Grandma Jan for a while. Grandpa Frank passed away ten years ago.”

Hannah’s face puckered like a child presented with a puzzle. “Mercy me, how could I forget something like that? Where is my head going to?”

Nicole smiled. “It’s all right. He went peacefully in his own bed.” Not like her father or her husband. She shook off the pinch of grief.

Sadness drooped Hannah’s lips. “He was a good man. A very good man.”

“I agree.” Nicole clasped her hands together in her lap. Frank Keller had nothing to do with the baby buried under his rose garden. Surely, everyone would know that.

Gentle fingers brushed a sweep of hair from Nicole’s cheek. Hannah’s green eyes searched her features. “You look troubled, dear. Do you want to talk about it?”

Nicole shrugged, words crowding to her lips. She did want to talk, to rant, to pull her hair, maybe even scream. But none of those reactions would change anything. They wouldn’t bring her dad back, or her husband, or put that poor child’s bones back into the ground where they couldn’t cast a shadow over everything that still mattered in her life.

“I was just driving around thinking.”

Hannah bobbed her head, scarf tips wagging in rhythm under her full chin. “I do the same thing when I’ve got something on my mind.”

Nicole cast a glance toward the rear door of the house. A small canopy wrapped the portal in deep shadows. What was the police chief in there telling Simon Elling right now? How did the dead child connect with the Ellings? Hannah might know. She was going to find out about Nicole’s discovery sooner rather than later.

She dragged her tongue across dry lips. “The contractors dug up something in my grandparents’ backyard, and I found it.”

Hannah’s face lit. “A treasure?”

Nicole shook her head. She tucked her feet under the bench and gripped the seat with both hands.

“You can’t leave me in suspense!” The older woman grabbed Nicole’s arm. “You simply have to tell me now!”

“I know. But it’s…hard.” She swallowed. “I found a child’s bones.” She winced, more from the sound of those terrible words than from the grip that tightened around her arm. “Who would bury a baby in my grandparents’ backyard?”

Hannah let out a little squeak and released Nicole. Her eyes, mouth and nostrils all formed round O’s. She clasped Nicole in a python’s squeeze. “You found him! Baby Sammy’s been found at last!”

“Baby Sammy?” Nicole’s words came out muffled in Hannah’s lilac-scented bosom.

Hannah set her away. Tears streamed into every crevice of the older woman’s face. “The dearest little boy on the planet. Little Samuel Elling. He went missing over fifty years ago. I’d given up that he’d be found.” Her hands flapped like an excited bird. “We must tell Simon straight away.”

She leaped up, but Nicole grabbed her hand. “The police are here already.”

“Then we must hurry.” Hannah tugged Nicole to her feet. The woman was as strong as she was stout. “I need to see Simon’s reaction when he’s told his heir has been found. I wouldn’t miss that for the world.”

“Just a minute. I don’t understand.”

“You will soon enough.” Hannah hurried up the flag-stones toward the house. “Come along, dear.”

Nicole scurried to keep up. “I don’t know if I should. I mean, I’m not family.”

“Oh, pish. I’m family and I invited you. You’re entitled. After all, you found him.”

Joy pulsed from the woman as if Nicole had announced the child was about to be returned alive. Maybe Hannah’s muddled mind had misunderstood. But how could she?

When Nicole was a little girl, Grandma Jan had warned her about the people who lived in this house, and the warning had struck deep. Her grandmother wasn’t one to speak ill of others. Of course, everyone knew about Melody, the ice queen, and her prima-donna ways. But it wasn’t about her that Grandma had cautioned the most. It was Hannah. Grandma gave her orders to stay away from the woman in the funny clothes.

But Nicole hadn’t seen a thing to fear in the mixed-up woman—either now or the day she ran into her, literally. Twelve-year-old Nicole had been trotting along on a main street sidewalk eager to meet up with some friends, then boom! She came up short against a stout figure emerging from Darlene’s Beauty Shop. The scent of lilac enveloped her then as it had today, and she looked up into the dreaded woman’s face, steeled for a scolding. Only Hannah hadn’t said one harsh word. She’d asked who Nicole was and seemed pleased to meet the Kellers’ granddaughter. She’d smiled and dug in her purse then swished off up the street, leaving Nicole with a pair of wide eyes and a peppermint in her hand.

Ahead of Nicole, Hannah’s crinoline swished exactly the way it had twenty years ago, and the ’50s dancing slippers on her feet tapped the stones. She led the way up three steps, pulled open the door and motioned Nicole inside.

Nicole hesitated. She was about to enter the boogeyman’s lair. Not that a childhood ghost story had any hold on her now. Her fears had way more substance. What did her grandparents have to do with the missing heir of the town’s founding dynasty? Rich might not be happy to see her barging in, but anything she could find out about the investigation might help her discover the truth that would clear her family name.

Or not.

THREE

“I’d like to speak to Fern,” Rich said.

“Sorry.” Simon tapped his snifter. “My wife is indisposed and has gone to bed.”

“You don’t think she’d want to be informed of this development as soon as possible?”

Simon took a sip. “Giving birth to our son nearly killed her. After we lost him, she never got over it. Half a century has passed. I won’t rob her of sleep over news that can wait until tomorrow. Old scars are going to rip open. I want to be the one to break it to her.”

Rich studied Simon under lowered brows. Fine-sounding concern for his wife. Only Simon wasn’t known for patience with his sickly spouse. The man resumed his seat at the desk and leaned back in his chair, chin lifted. He’d never looked so arrogant…or so closemouthed. Too bad Rich couldn’t have videotaped this proceeding for later review. Something stunk around here, but smell wouldn’t show up on camera, only in a cop’s nose.

“I was hoping she might know something to help with the identification.”

Simon shrugged. “Another day.”

Rich made a note in his book. “How about Hannah?”

Simon’s eyes widened. “What about her?”

“She lived here at the time of the kidnapping, she might remember something useful.”

The other man barked a laugh. “Are we talking about the same woman?”

Rich pressed his lips together. Yes, Hannah lived somewhere in the last century, but she wasn’t an idiot. “What could it hurt if I asked her?”

The study door burst open, and a plump figure in an old-fashioned dress swept inside, followed by a more hesitant slender woman in jeans. Rich’s eyes narrowed. Hannah he might have expected, but what was Nicole doing here? She cast him a sidelong glance, and then her gaze moved from Simon to Hannah and back again. Rich followed her look. She was a good observer. The patriarch’s face had darkened nearly to the color of his beverage, while Hannah appeared to be walking on air.

Simon rose, chest inflated. “I’ve warned you about barging into my study uninvited.”

The light on Hannah’s face dimmed. “I had to come because of the news. Dearest Nicole has found our Sammy.”

Rich stifled a sigh. Nicole had spilled the beans. But why was she here in the first place? His gaze rested on her.

She shifted from one foot to the other. “I was driving around…thinking. And I saw Hannah sitting in the garden. She looked—”

“Like I needed help.” Hannah finished for her with a bright chortle. “Wasn’t that sweet?” She scurried over to Simon’s desk. “Isn’t it wonderful about little Sammy?”

Simon scowled. “Wonderful that a baby’s bones have been found? We don’t know that it’s Samuel, and if it is, he’s no less lost to us than the day he disappeared.”

“But—”

“Contain yourself.” Simon’s words came out a growl, and Hannah winced then sent a pleading look toward Nicole.

Rich made a mental note. The older woman had formed an instant bond with Nicole. Was it because she found Samuel’s remains or because she showed Hannah compassion by stopping to check on her?

Nicole stepped forward, her gaze on Simon. “I know this is terrible news and does nothing to restore your loss, but I don’t fault Hannah for being excited about the possibility of closure for your family. Your wife will likely feel the same way.” Her gaze slanted toward Rich and then darted away.

Smooth words from the heart of a peacemaker, but she could as well have added aloud, “As long as that closure doesn’t implicate my grandparents.” Rich’s gut clenched. Circumstances placed Frank and Jan at the top of the suspect list. There wasn’t enough hard evidence to make an arrest—yet—but the community was going to have a field day with speculations.

Rich poised his pen over his notebook. “As long as you’re here, Hannah, let me ask you a few questions.”

Simon subsided into his chair with a wave that absolved him of any connection with the discussion he considered a waste of time. Nicole’s posture stiffened.

Rich would just as soon she wasn’t privy to any more information than she needed to be, especially when the investigation involved her grandparents. “You should head home, Nicole. I’m sure your grandmother could use the company.”

Color rose in her cheeks, and her dark eyes snapped. “My grandmother has shut herself in her bedroom and won’t talk to me, so I’m not sure what you think I should be doing for her.”

Dismay sent a pang to Rich’s heart. “I wasn’t criticizing. I meant—”

“I won’t say a word without her here.” Hannah wound her arm through Nicole’s and clung, jaw jutting.

Nicole’s mouth fell open. It seemed Hannah’s fixation on her was as much a surprise to Nicole as anybody else.

“Very well.” Rich nodded. “Hannah, do you remember what Samuel was wearing when he disappeared?”

“When he was cruelly kidnapped from his own bed, don’t you mean?” Hannah’s gaze turned fierce. “He was in his fuzzy red sleeper with an adorable sheep embroidered on the right shoulder. It was fall, you know, and the air had a nip so we dressed him warmly.”

Rich wrote in his book. “And was anything taken with him?”

Hannah cocked her head then nodded. “We never did see his favorite toy again. The kidnappers must have bundled it off with him.”

“A toy?” Rich cocked a brow. “Can you describe it?”

“It was a blue-and-white rattle on a stick.” Hannah disengaged her arm from Nicole’s and made a shaking motion as if she held the toy. “Such a simple plaything made him laugh and coo. The sides were flat, so he liked to bite it while he teethed. Simon and Fern spent loads of money on fancy toys that squeaked or played music or danced or—”

“We get the idea, Hannah.” Simon’s tone dripped contempt. “Stop rambling and answer the police chief’s questions.”

Hannah blinked, and her gaze went vague. She squinted toward Rich. “Chief? You? Aren’t you some kind of deputy? What happened to Chief Wilson?”

Rich sent her a gentle smile. “He retired six years ago.”

“Oh, that’s right.” She gave an airy wave. “Time has a way of flying, doesn’t it?”

“Thank you, Hannah.” Rich shut his notebook. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“Is it Sammy?” The older woman twisted her fingers together.

Nicole touched her arm. “Chief Hendricks won’t be able to say yet. They have to run DNA tests.”

Rich smiled toward Nicole. The gesture brought no thaw in her wary expression. He couldn’t fault her for being defensive about the investigation, but maybe he’d get a chance later to tell her how much he appreciated her discretion in not blurting that the infant’s remains had been clothed in red and that a blue-and-white rattle was buried with the body.

“I’d like to get a DNA sample from you, Simon.” He nodded toward the older man. “And one from Fern as soon as possible.”

Simon rose and set his snifter on the desk. “So basically you’re here to question us, collect evidence and offer next to no information in return.”

“I’m afraid that’s the way it works at this point.” And why wasn’t Simon falling all over himself to cooperate? Was it simply a power trip? His puzzling behavior nagged at Rich.

Simon crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ll have to discuss this testing thing with Fern. We’ll get back to you.”

Rich’s mouth opened then he clamped his teeth together. He wasn’t surprised that the frail Mrs. Elling was indisposed, but this was the first time he ever heard of Simon needing to consult his wife about anything.

“I’ll do the test,” Hannah singsonged. “I’d love to give some DNA. Give generously. Isn’t that what they say at the blood drives?”

Simon whirled on his sister-in-law. “DNA testing isn’t like giving blood, you ninny.”

“Actually, it’s simpler.” Nicole glared at Simon. “Nothing to be squeamish about.”

Rich clicked his pen and swallowed a grin at the spunky woman’s implication that the town patriarch had a yellow streak. Simon’s eyes popped wide, and his color darkened. Rich opened his mouth to intervene.

“Then let’s do it!” Hannah stuck out her tongue at her brother-in-law like an overgrown toddler.

Nicole’s gaze met Rich’s. Amusement flickered between them, and his insides warmed. Maybe there was still a chance that they could be friends…or something more.

“I’m sorry.” Rich looked toward Hannah. “We need DNA from the mother and father for legal certainty of the child’s identity.”

Hannah’s shoulders wilted.

Simon waved her away. “Go polish your nails or something.”

Hannah shuffled to the door, Nicole in her wake. On the threshold, Nicole glanced back and their gazes collided. What did he see in her eyes? Pity toward Hannah? Anger toward Simon? Fear of the police investigation? Yes, all of those. Rich was pretty sure if there was any more information to be gleaned from Hannah, Nicole would get it.

But would she share it with him?

Nicole’s hands bunched into fists as she trailed Hannah up a dim hallway. The older woman’s head hung as if her scarf were a mantle of sorrow. Nicole didn’t blame Hannah for chronic depression. If human kindness had ever warmed these rooms, all trace had long since leached away. In Hannah’s place, she would have popped Simon one in the snoot—at least in her imagination—and packed her bags. Why did the woman stay around? Of course, at her age, the most likely move was an assisted-living facility, and those cost a lot of money that Hannah likely didn’t have. The poor woman was trapped.

Nicole moved up alongside her forlorn hostess. “I should be going now. I hadn’t intended to stay this long.”

“It’s all right.” Hannah patted Nicole’s shoulder. The ghost of a spark lit the older woman’s gaze.

Rebellion still lived in the wrinkled old heart, and Nicole silently rejoiced. “Can you show me to the door?”

“I have something I need to give you first.” Hannah crooked a finger and entered a small sitting room toward the back of the house “This is my little apartment.” She continued through the outer room and into a bedroom done in pale pink chintz. More like a child’s room than an adult’s with the frilly canopy over a twin bed and a ballerina theme.

Hannah stood on tiptoe and twirled, full skirt billowing. “You can see what I once dreamed of doing.”

Nicole nodded, mute. She understood squashed dreams. She and Glen had wanted children in the worst way, but—Nicole stuffed the pain back into its hidey-hole. Too raw to deal with at this inconvenient moment. But when would the convenient time come?

“This way.” Hannah waved her over to a gaily painted trunk at the foot of the bed. She rummaged inside and came out with a blue satin drawstring bag. “Here.” She held it out.

“Oh, I couldn’t—”

Hannah placed a pudgy finger over Nicole’s lips. “This was Sammy’s. My keepsake of him. Give it to Chief Wilson.”

Nicole swallowed the urge to correct her on the chief’s identity. What was the point? She peeped inside the bag. It contained an infant’s hair brush.

Her heart rate sprang into a jog-trot. “I’ll pass this along.”

“Good.” Hannah winked. “The back door is up the hall and to the left.” The woman stretched and yawned. “I’m very tired now. I think I’ll turn in.”

Nicole carried her small treasure toward the exit. Hannah must be sharper than anyone gave her credit for if she realized the hairs in the brush might positively identify her precious nephew, with or without parental DNA.

Nicole passed through a pristine, stainless-steel kitchen and shivered. Clean, cold and efficient. Like the people who lived here. Except she got the feeling that beneath the polish of prestige the filth ran deep. Sort of like the Pharisees Jesus called “white-washed tombs.” Maybe she’d found baby Samuel Elling’s remains beneath her grandparents’ rose garden, but what if the truth behind the death was buried within these brick walls?

Simon inhaled his last gulp of brandy. “Why don’t you come back another time, and we’ll see about that DNA.” The man’s eyes flashed a message that the interview was over.

Rich’s fingers itched to snatch the glass out of Simon’s hand. That item would do very nicely for DNA, but he had no choice except to leave. For now.

He jerked his chin toward the Elling patriarch. “I’ll stay in touch.”

“Be sure you do. Maybe I’ll give Judge Becker a call. Let him know you’re on top of a hot case and need your docket cleared.”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll visit with the D.A. in the morning.” If Simon Elling could play the old-buddy card with his lifelong pal, Judge Becker, Rich could remind him that the prosecuting attorney was from a different era and not in his pocket. And it was the D.A. he’d report developments to, not to either of the judges that served the county, especially not Becker.

Rich saw himself to the door, footsteps echoing in the empty foyer. He’d known this family was strange, but why would Simon balk at the surest way to prove his son had been found? He needed to look at the case file from the time of the kidnapping and see how closely family had been looked at as suspects. The personal touches in the clandestine burial indicated some level of caring. Of course, he hadn’t seen any such thing in the hard eyes of Simon Elling.

Dusk had gripped the land when Rich stepped outside. He deeply inhaled the cooling air, relieved to be out of that house’s oppressive atmosphere. He went down the stairs and up the walk toward his vehicle. At the curb, Rich did a one-eighty observation of the property. As he turned toward the house, a curtain moved in a lit room upstairs. Fern or Melody?

The roar of a motor drew his attention. Headlights barreled up the driveway toward him, and a low-slung sports car rumbled to a halt behind his SUV. A male figure climbed out of the passenger side. Mason Wright. Now the gang’s all here. Rich hooked a thumb in his front jeans pocket and watched the young man move toward him, swaying as if he were a sailor at sea. Three sheets to the wind all right, and it wasn’t even 10:00 p.m.

If Mason had been behind the wheel, Rich could have arrested him. Maybe this third time would have been the charm, and the D.U.I. would stick. Or maybe not, if Judge Becker heard the case. The Elling fortunes might be in the tank, but their influence still loomed large.

Whip-slender and inches shorter than Rich’s six feet one, Melody’s son halted in front of Rich and snapped a sloppy salute. “If it ain’t the chief. Come to harash me again? Shorry to dishappoint you.” The twenty-six-year-old delinquent burped in Rich’s face.

“I think you’ve disappointed yourself enough for the both of us.” Rich went to the sports car and knocked on the window.

The glass whooshed down, and Taylor Mead, Dr. Sharla’s daughter and Mason’s newest girlfriend, stared up at him. “Don’t mind me, Chief, I’m clean and sober.” Her gaze fell away.

Rich shook his head. She’d probably had a soft drink, that was the kind of girl she was. But how long would she maintain her standards if she hung around Mason and his crowd? The doctor’s family went to the same little community church that Rich did. He’d taught Taylor in youth group, and she was a classmate of his daughter Katrina’s, though not a close friend.

He leaned closer. “Does your mom know you’re rocketing around in this death trap with a drunken passenger?”

Taylor glared. “Hey, he called me up and asked me to drive him home from Sparky’s Bar. He knows you guys are waiting for him to slip up again. He’s not so bad, you know. Just needs someone to understand him.”

Right. He’d heard that same song from women with black eyes and busted jaws, courtesy of the poor, misunderstood dirtball they called boyfriend or husband. He didn’t want Taylor to end up another statistic. Mason was known to have the Elling temper.

“At least let me give you a lift back to your own car.” Rich offered a smile.

She tucked her lower lip between straight white teeth that must have cost her folks a hunk of change, and then shook her head. Her gaze was fixed on the young man who stood swaying on the entrance walk.

“I’ll probably hang out here awhile. Play video games. Whatever.” She opened the car door, and Rich stepped out of the way as she emerged. “I’m nineteen years old and headed for college in a few weeks. I appreciate your concern, but you and my parents will have to stop mother-henning me.” She flipped her blond hair over her shoulder and stomped off.

“If you think you need a ride,” he spoke after her, “call me no matter what time it is.”

Heart heavy, he got into his SUV. Something was seriously funky in that household, and a bright girl with a promising future like Taylor didn’t belong in all that darkness. But he couldn’t control her choices. Just like he couldn’t control Jan Keller’s choice not to tell him what she knew about the baby that was buried in her backyard.

He guided his vehicle out of the driveway and onto one of the torn-up city streets. Behind him a pair of headlights came up quickly, bouncing over the bumpy track. Whoever it was needed to slow down and keep their distance. Frowning, Rich’s hand moved toward the control for his bubble lights, then froze. The car behind flashed its headlights and signaled to pull over. Rich eased to the side of the road, and the other vehicle stopped behind him. The car’s door opened, and the dome light revealed Nicole climbing out. Rich met her between their vehicles. The headlights from her car outlined her figure but left her features in shadows.

“Hi.” He ventured a small wave. “Thanks for handling matters so well back there.”

She let out a small laugh. “Here, I thought you were going to scold me for horning in on the investigation.”

“I probably should, but I get the sense that you were caught up in the moment and ended up where you didn’t expect.”

Her shoulders slumped. “The whole day has been like that. More like the past year.”

Was something heavy going on in Nicole’s life even before her husband was killed? Rich stopped the question from popping out of his mouth. He didn’t have the right to ask anything like that yet.

“What have you got there?” He motioned toward a bag she cupped in a palm as if it were fragile and precious.

“I was waiting at the intersection up the street for you to leave the Ellings so I could give you this. It’s from Hannah. Baby Samuel’s hairbrush. Maybe there’s still usable DNA on it.” Nicole held the bag out to him.

Rich let out a low whistle and took the offering. “Thanks. I knew you’d handle Hannah like a pro.”

“No handling necessary.” She crossed her arms. “She volunteered. At least one person in that house wants the poor child identified.”

Rich nodded. “We need an ID to have any hope of finding out who might have buried the infant on your grandparents’ property.”

“You’re giving them the benefit of the doubt?”

Her breathless hope sent a shaft through Rich’s heart. He steeled his emotions. “No more than I would any other citizen in good standing. Innocent until proven guilty, remember?”

She cleared her throat. “Well, thanks for that anyway.”

An awkward silence stretched between them.

“Good night,” she ventured first and turned away.

“Good night,” Rich called after her.

Good night? He climbed into his SUV. What a joke!

Nicole’s discovery could steamroll her whole family under the wheels of justice. Unfortunately, he was the guy that had to drive the steamroller whichever direction the investigation led. Neither of them was going to sleep well tonight.

Nicole tossed and turned in her upstairs bedroom. The last time she looked at the bedside clock, it was nearing midnight. There was no way that Grandpa Jan or Grandpa Frank had anything to do with her horrific discovery. They were so honest they’d go out of their way to return a dime if a checkout clerk gave them too much change. But then why was an infant buried beneath Grandpa Frank’s roses?

And what was the matter with her that she’d taken note of that police chief’s naked wedding ring finger? What a time to suddenly feel attraction for a man. The shock of her discovery must have affected her even worse than she thought if a square chin and a pair of vivid hazel eyes could jump-start her pulse.

Had he always been single? Or was he divorced like too many cops? Maybe widowed? That would be a switch, the spouse going before the cop, but it happened. His voice had been strong, yet gentle when examining the remains. He’d been firm when questioning her grandmother, though, but not bullying, like some behaved with suspects.

Suspects! Her grandmother was a suspect in the death of a baby. Unbelievable! Her grandfather, too. He might be dead and gone, but this discovery promised to assassinate the memory of his character. Unless he was clearly exonerated. Unless they both were.

Nicole caught her breath. Please, God, let this mystery be solved. But what if the case remained unsolved and suspicion clouded the rest of her grandmother’s days? And let my grandparents be innocent. But what if they weren’t?

Sighing, Nicole sat up and switched on the small table lamp. She might as well go downstairs and warm a cup of milk. The old-fashioned remedy had helped many nights when Glen was out on night duty, and she knew he had a particularly dangerous case on his docket.

Nicole threw on her robe and padded barefoot down the carpeted stairs, relying on the nightlights her grandmother had strategically placed along the route for vision. She stepped off the hallway carpet onto the cool kitchen linoleum, and the sound of stealthy footfalls on the porch froze her in her tracks. She’d read in the local newspaper about a rash of nighttime thefts in the county. Her heart did a somersault.

Had they forgotten to lock the door?

The door latch clicked, and the panel creaked slowly ajar.

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