Shadow Notes by Laurel Peterson (my miracle luna book free read .TXT) 📕

The chief nodded in my direction. “You’ve met Clara Montague?” He didn’t realize I knew everyone in town. It was he who was new.

“I believe we renewed our acquaintance,” Mueller drawled, “one or two martinis ago.”

At least the man had the grace to remember and I smiled at his sort-of apology. “In fact,” Mueller continued, “I’ve known Clara and her mother all their lives, but I hadn’t seen her in so long, I forgot what she looked like.” He patted DuPont on the arm, still addressing me. “Your mother did us a great favor when she pushed us into a nationwide search for police chief. We got ourselves a good man.”

“Mother was involved in finding a police chief?”

“Your Mama’s pretty influential around here. Not everybody likes that.”

Hetty Gardner chose that moment to interrupt. “Clara.”

“Hi, Hetty.”

“I’m sorry about your mother.” She held her head to the side slightly, as if shielding her comment from the men.

“Thanks.” I glanced at Nat, not sure what he knew.

“Yeah, terrible thing, Clara. You got a good lawyer?”

“Bailey Womack.”

Hetty sucked in her breath sharply, then coughed.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I, uh…” She snuffled a bit and rooted around in her pocket. A large handkerchief emerged to cover almost her entire face. If she blew, it was silent, and a moment later, the handkerchief disappeared again. “She and I didn’t really get along at school.”

“Hetty, you were, what, three grades behind us?”

“One,” she snapped.

“Sorry,” I said. “I don’t remember it all that well. Actually, I’ve tried to forget most of it.” I gave a cocktail-party laugh.

Chief DuPont leaned against the doorframe and scanned the room.

“You were pretty oblivious.” Her sharp tone surprised me.

I hardly remembered interacting with her at all other than on the bus. We hadn’t lived far from each other then, but later—if my fuzzy brain recalled accurately—I thought her parents moved to another part of town. After that, I hardly saw her, even though her mother’s second husband, Ernie Brown, had been my father’s business partner.

“I imagine forgetting wouldn’t be that hard.”

“What are you talking about?”

She just shook her head. “If you don’t remember….”

I made the mistake of looking at the chief and he raised an eyebrow at me. “I knew you’d been misbehaving, Miz Montague.”

It was all I could do not to burst out laughing. Hetty harrumphed.

Mueller changed the subject, rescuing us all. “So Hetty, how are those sheep doing? We’ve still gotta contract for the town picnic this summer, right?”

Hetty nodded. “Five lambs and tomatoes, lettuce, radishes—all the ­vegetables you ordered. I’ve got it all worked out. I’ll butcher the lambs a week or so before, so the meat will be really fresh. I even have a couple of the high school kids lined up to help me with packing and transport.” She ducked her head, presumably in deference to the mayor and his kindness in ordering from her farm.

“Sounds great,” he said, a bit too heartily.

I was thinking about the lambs—little, fluffy, playful lambs. “I need another drink,” I said. “Can I get anything for anyone else?”

“What’s the matter, Clara? Can’t you take the blood and guts?” Hetty stared at me, her eyes dark and triumphant. I could see why people thought she was dancing naked while praying to the moon goddess.

“Frankly, Ms. Gardner, I’m not sure I can either,” muttered Mueller. He took my arm and guided me away from Chief DuPont and toward the bar, buried six-deep in bodies in a low-ceilinged dining room. Mueller’s beefy hand stayed on my arm as we threaded our way through. It was good it was his left hand, because he needed his right hand to shake with almost every person we passed.

When we reached the relative sanctity of the bar itself, Mueller said, “I’ve known your mom a long time. You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do, right?”

It was what people said when they didn’t really want to do anything of the kind. I wanted to ask him if my mother and Hugh had had an affair. I wanted to know if they’d broken it off, if Hugh hadn’t stopped coming around, as Mary Ellen said, but I didn’t. “You went to school with her?”

He nodded.

I had the bartender pour me a glass of seltzer water. It was getting late and I was feeling the drinks I’d already had.

“What was she like?”

“She treated everybody the same, no matter what side of the tracks they grew up on, if you know what I mean. She was always telling stories and making plans. She wanted to be a dancer.”

“A dancer?” I couldn’t remember Mother on any dance floor.

He nodded. “She spent more time at that ballet studio than at school, but she always had time for the school newspaper—not that we had much to write about in seventh and eighth grade—and the drama teacher got her to help choreograph one of the school musicals. She was something, your mother.”

“Why did she change?”

The question startled him. “I, uh…I’d have to think about that,” he hedged, running his hand down his tie and patting it flat against his stomach’s bulk. “The person who knew her best was Hugh. So tragic. You just say the word, and I’ll do whatever I can to help.” He picked up the fresh martini from the bar and then someone caught his attention, and he turned away, patting vaguely at my arm.

I looked around the room. It was as empty as any room I’d ever seen, even jammed with people. So much money and ambition couldn’t fill this space with anything more than fizz. What would any of these people ever tell me that would give me the kind of insight into Mother I so desperately wanted? Mueller was right. Hugh had been my best bet, but Hugh was dead.

Chapter 6

I came home at two a.m. with a hangover in the making to a house too empty and quiet, and switched on some Miles Davis for ­company. I poured myself a huge glass of water, kicked