the secrets of Rosa Lee,” Sidney whispered and wondered what waited behind the solid double doors.
Doors that had kept out the world for a lifetime.
Across town in the Clifton Creek Hotel, Sloan McCormick dropped his leather duffel bag on the tiny hotel bed and growled. He hated sleeping with his feet hanging off the end. At six foot four, it was the rule rather than the exception when traveling.
He also hated small towns with their cracker-box hotel rooms, where neon signs blinked through the thin drapes all night long and sheets had the softness of cheap paper towels.
Emptying his pockets on the scarred dresser, he tried to think of one thing he liked about this assignment. He thought he’d grown used to being alone, but no place made him feel more alone than a small town, and Clifton Creek was a classic. In a town over fifty thousand or so, he could blend in, look familiar enough so that folks returned his smile or wave. But in a place this size, people knew he was a stranger and treated him as such.
“Get the job done and get out.” He repeated his rules. “Never get personally involved.”
Sloan pulled a pack of folders from his bag and walked to where one of the double lights above the headboard shone. In the dull glow, he went over the list of committee members.
The Rogers sisters would be no problem—he could probably charm them. Both were retired schoolteachers. From what he’d gathered, they were much loved in the community. Though they lived modestly—small house, used van—he was surprised to discover close to eight hundred thousand in their combined savings accounts. A nice little nest egg for the two ladies.
He flipped to the next file. The professor, Sidney Dickerson, would not be as easy to convince. He had listened outside her classroom. Facts, not dreams, would interest her. But, he wasn’t sure how to get to her. Dr. Dickerson’s interest in the Altman house was far more than mild curiosity. She’d proved that in the half-dozen articles she’d written for the paper.
He flipped to the next member of the mayor’s committee. The preacher, Micah Parker, might be convinced “for the good of the community.” Sloan had rarely seen a man above thirty so squeaky clean. The private eye he’d hired couldn’t dig up a single whisper on the widower, not even in his hometown.
The last two folders belonged to the troublemaker, Billy Hatcher, and the ad executive, Lora Whitman. Both would probably go for money if he offered. Hatcher worked at the lumberyard and did odd jobs around town. Except for one brush with the law, he’d stayed below the radar. Lora Whitman was another story. She appeared to have lived her life in the public eye ever since she was six and had posed for her father’s car ads. When Sloan had flipped through the weekly paper’s archives, he’d seen several pictures of her. Homecoming queen, cheerleader, fund-raising for one cause then another. Her wedding picture had covered half a page.
Sloan spread the members’ fact sheets across the bed. He only needed four to swing the committee. But which four?
He grabbed his Stetson and headed toward the bar he had seen a few blocks away. “Time to go fishin’,” Sloan mumbled.
Two
Micah Parker didn’t believe in ghosts. He reminded himself of this fact as he jogged toward the edge of town, but there was something strange about the old Altman house. It drew him the way ambulance lights on a highway lured curious drivers.
He caught himself circling past the place each night when he ran. Something must have occurred there years ago and left its impression on the very air—it was not sounds, or odd sightings, but more an emotion that settled on the passerby’s skin, thick as humidity just before a storm breaks.
Like most of those chosen for the mayor’s committee, he couldn’t wait to go inside and have a look. And tomorrow, he’d get his chance. Reverend Milburn had talked him into another civic committee, this one to decide what to do with Rosa Lee Altman’s place. As associate minister, Micah followed orders.
Even though a relative newcomer in town, Micah had heard the stories about the old maid who had lived to be ninety-two. She’d lost her wealth—first a section, then a block at a time until nothing had remained in her name but the house and gardens. Some said she’d never ventured beyond her gates. She had had no life outside her property, and folks said no one, not even a delivery man, had stepped beyond her porch.
Micah studied the house as he crossed the street, his tennis shoes almost soundless. Even in the streetlight he could see that weather had sanded away almost all paint, leaving the two-story colonial a dusty brown. The same color as the dirt that sifted through everything over this open land.
Smiling, he waved at the house. It seemed more than brick and board. Some places have personalities, he thought with a grin. If this one had a voice it would say, “Evenin’ Reverend Parker,” in a Texas drawl.
He slowed in the darkness and stretched before turning about and heading back through town. The temperature had dropped during his run. Time to get home.
As he stepped into the street, a movement in the gutter caught his attention. He stumbled trying to avoid a collision.
A tiny, muddy, yellow cat, not big enough to be without its mother, curled against a pile of trash the wind had swept in the grate. Its long hair stuck out in all directions, but the little thing didn’t know enough to crawl away from the pile of discarded cups and packing paper.
Micah leaned down. “Now, what have we here?” He lifted the shivering pile of bones and hair.
The animal made a hissing sound but didn’t fight as he warmed it with his hands.
“How about coming along with me, little guy?” Micah carefully tucked the kitten into his jacket pocket and turned toward home. “I’ll share the leftovers from the men’s prayer breakfast with you.”
The animal didn’t sound any more excited about the meal than he was, but their choices were limited. Thanks to his late meeting at the church tonight, his son Logan had already eaten dinner with their neighbor, Mrs. Mac. Micah could go grocery shopping at the town’s only store and probably run into half a dozen people he knew, all of whom he’d have to talk to. Or, he could eat out alone and have everyone who passed by look as if they felt sorry for him. Or, he could finish off whatever lay wrapped in the aluminum foil the breakfast cleanup committee had insisted he take. Leftovers seemed the best choice.
When Micah entered the back of the duplex he shared with his seven-year-old son, he lowered the kitten into a basket of dirty laundry and motioned for it to be quiet.
The cat just stared up at him, too frightened to make a sound.
Micah closed the utility-room door and silently moved down the hallway. Sometime during the fifty-year history of this place, someone had cut a door between the two apartments.
He leaned his head into the other apartment and whispered, “Thanks, Mrs. Mac.”
“You’re welcome,” she answered without turning away from her TV. “No trouble.”
Micah closed the door connecting the apartments without bothering to lock it, then moved down the hallway to Logan’s room. Over the past three years they’d worked out a system. He helped Mrs. Mac carry in her groceries, mowed her side of the lawn and did anything her arthritis wouldn’t let her do. She watched over a sleeping Logan while Micah ran, and babysat on the rare occasions Logan couldn’t
