High Country Cop. Cynthia ThomasonЧитать онлайн книгу.
she was feeling.
Seeing Carter had unnerved her. The road twisted and curved, and Miranda followed it, mindful of the rocky shoulder that didn’t do much to prevent an unwary motorist from going off the road and plunging straight down. Still, sharp in her mind was the image of Carter’s face, now even stronger and more self-assured than when he’d played fullback on the high school football team. Then his boyish face and mussed brown hair had turned lots of heads. His shoulders were still as broad, his back still straight. He’d been a hero back then to the folks who followed high school football. As a police officer, he probably was now, too.
“Does Daddy know that Carter man?”
Miranda pulled her thoughts into the present moment and turned toward her daughter. “What? Yes, Daddy knew Carter. We were all friends in high school.”
“Daddy thinks he’s dead.”
Miranda narrowed her eyes at Emily. “No, honey, he couldn’t think that.” But she knew her daughter well enough to understand that when she said something, even something that didn’t seem to make sense, the idea came from a place deep in her overactive and clever brain. “Why would you say that, Em?”
Emily slid her finger across the screen of her smartphone, looking at pictures she’d taken at Lawton’s cabin. “We were at Grandma June’s one time and Daddy said that you guys would still be married if it hadn’t been for the ghost of Carter Cahill.” She looked over at Miranda. “I don’t believe in ghosts, but I guess Daddy does. Anyway, I’ll tell him that Carter isn’t dead.”
Miranda’s first inclination was to be angry with Donny for speaking so carelessly, but then she remembered Emily’s recent habit of listening at keyholes. “Did Daddy say that when you were in the room with him and Grandma?”
“No, I just heard it, that’s all.” She returned to staring at the pictures, enlarging each one on the screen. “He’ll be happy that Carter isn’t dead, won’t he?”
“What you heard about the ghost is an expression that people use sometimes to talk about another person. Daddy didn’t think Carter was dead. He was just making a point.”
“What point? Does he think Carter is scary? I didn’t think he was very friendly, but he’s not scary.”
“No, Daddy didn’t think that either.” Miranda sighed. “I told you we were all good friends at one time. It’s complicated, honey.”
“I get it. You’re not going to tell me.”
“Not right now. All you need to know is that Daddy and Carter used to be on the football team together, but they had a falling-out. You know what that means?”
Emily nodded. “Like LeeAnn and me do sometimes.”
“Exactly.”
“Was it over you?”
Oh, boy. “It was over several different things,” Miranda evaded. “Men argue just like everyone else, like you and I do sometimes. But deep down I think they could be friends again.”
“They should have a sit-down like you and I do when we argue. Then it would all be over.”
Nearing the bottom of the mountain, Miranda changed the subject. “Did you get any good pictures?”
“Yes. One I want to print out and put in a frame. There’s a bunny in it. I wish you had brought our printer.”
Thank goodness they were back to minor complaints and a world of bunnies. “We can go to Boone and stop at the office supply store. They can print the photo for you.”
Satisfied for the moment, Emily put her head back and watched the town out her window. Miranda wondered what she thought of the quaint beauty of the mostly century-old buildings, the green area where concerts were held in the summer, the vibrant green holly that dripped from nearly every hanging pot on the sidewalk lights.
Though she’d been glad to get away from Liggett Mountain, Miranda missed the town, the security of it, the sameness, the way a teenage girl could walk among the large oaks and maple trees and imagine a better life for herself. And while she walked, she pictured herself in love for the rest of her life with the hero of the football team.
But so much had happened. Miranda’s father, who, like many men in the area, worked at the Cahill paper mill, had died as a result of it. Carter’s father, Raymond Cahill, had influenced everyone’s lives. Miranda had used a sudden influx of guilt money from Raymond’s payout to enroll in a university. Now she’d been gone fourteen years and the town belonged to those who’d stayed behind, like Carter. This was his town. He protected it and guarded it, but even amid the soothing comfort of home, tragedy had found him, not once but three times with a series of miscarriages, and he’d suffered. In their own ways, they all had.
* * *
BETSY GREETED CARTER when he walked into police headquarters. “Did you find the missing stuff from the hardware store?” she asked. “And did Dale Jefferson behave himself?”
“No, I didn’t find it, and considering it’s Dale we’re talking about, I’d say he was mostly civil.”
“Carl Harker has called three times this morning to see how you’re coming with the case.”
Carter strode by the counter where Betsy acted as receptionist and dispatcher for the department, picked up his messages and said, “Tell Carl not to call again. We’ll call him when we know anything.”
She snickered. “Like he’ll pay attention to that... Did you see Lawton?”
“He was there. He claimed he didn’t know anything about the break-in, and I believe him.” Carter debated telling Betsy about the other person who was at the Jefferson cabin. Mentioning Miranda might cause a stir in town, but he had to tell someone, and Betsy had known Miranda when she lived here. “You’ll never guess who was at the Jefferson place when I got there,” he said, thinking he sounded casual enough.
Betsy shuffled some papers that probably didn’t need shuffling. “Miranda Jefferson, now Larson, is my guess,” she said.
So much for remaining casual. “How did you know that? Miranda just got to town this morning.”
“I ran into Lucy Dillingham at the grocery store. As you know, she runs the new B&B. She told me that this nice young lady and her daughter had checked in and then took off to go somewhere. When she said the lady’s name was Miranda, I assumed her destination was Liggett Mountain.”
Carter tucked his messages into his shirt pocket. “Well, you’re right. It was Miranda. She works for the department of social services, and I suppose now she’s helping to acclimate our town’s latest ex-con.”
“You can’t say Lawton doesn’t need the help,” Betsy said. “It’s not like anybody welcomed him back with open arms.” She shook her head. “I always say we have the nicest people in Holly River, and it’s basically true, but you throw one poor soul into the mix that folks don’t want here, and their claim to kindness seems to fly out the window.”
“Lawton went to prison because he deserved to,” Carter said, sounding a bit too defensive. “I caught him destroying property at the mayor’s office. Good grief, Betsy, he burned down the wooden sculpture of the river elk that had been in front of city hall for fifty years. And that doesn’t even take into account the illegal rifle and twenty pounds of methamphetamine in his trunk—drugs he manufactured in his own shed.”
“I know all that,” Betsy said. “But I still have a soft spot in my heart for that boy.” Betsy had known many of the young folks in town back then, and Carter suspected she had a soft spot for most of them. “I don’t think he would have turned out so bad if he hadn’t been under Dale’s influence. When their momma and daddy up and left them, Lawton was just a lost soul. He had no one to follow besides Dale.”
“A lost soul who was going to sell meth to our high school kids.” Carter sighed.