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

asked when I smiled at his combination of blue eyes, blond hair and broad shoulders.

“What’s the label?”

He told me.

“Ah. That explains its little edge.”

He grimaced. “Yeah, I can’t talk my boss into stocking good wines by the glass. He’s too worried about roof leaks and stuff.”

“I bet it costs a lot to keep this place up. How old is the building?”

“1891. Built by the last son of a shipbuilding family, who imported all the stone from France.”

And I would really love to be in Paris right now. “Been working here long?”

“About three months. I took a year off school that turned into four years of bumming around the world. This job is pretty boring and,” he leaned over the bar, “waiting on rich married women is even more boring. They’re too easy.” He grinned, conspiratorial. “It’s time to go back to college.”

Good. I’d gotten him on my side. “Have you applied?”

“Got accepted at Gettysburg last spring—deferred it, since I had to earn enough money to get home from Thailand. I start in September.”

“Good school. What will you study?”

“International business, I thought, but looking at these guys, I don’t know. I was thinking maybe wood science or philosophy.” He said it with a straight face.

“Wood science, huh? Gettysburg got a big program in that?”

“They’ve got a good philosophy program. Anyway, it’s all about learning to think like the plants, right? I figure I’m golden.”

“Good thinking.” I raised my glass to him. “May your future open to you like a spring full of flowers.”

He snickered, but straightened quickly when a man with a bristly red mustache beckoned imperiously from the other end of the bar. “Be right back,” he muttered. It gave me a minute to check out how the composition of the room had changed. More of the wives had arrived, creating a sea of blonde hair interspersed with little bald-head boats, and fewer were shooting me daggers, since I was obviously flirting with the bartender. I still didn’t see Winken.

The bartender returned. “Find who you’re looking for?”

“What’s your name?”

“Bret.”

Of course it was. “I’m Clara. Do you know the Hankins?”

“Oh sure! Dr. Hankin is great. They’re around the corner.” He pointed.

“Think I’ll go say ‘hi.’”

“Don’t forget to say goodbye before you go.” Bret winked, which was very good for my confidence.

I crossed the room thinking about how Hugh’s murder, Mother’s public confession, my dreams, the claustrophobic feeling of this town, and the unwillingness of its residents to talk to me had convinced me that someone wanted Mother behind bars—or worse. Chief DuPont’s attitude hadn’t calmed me down either. What could Mother know that would hurt someone? And what did Hugh have to do with anything? All of it made me feel rather protective of Mother. Sure, we hadn’t gotten along. Ever. Sure, we didn’t really know each other. But we were blood, and no one would harm her if I could help it, especially since I had questions I needed to ask her first. Snatches of conversation started to register. “…Constance’s daughter…in jail, you know…a little strange…fifteen?…gone a long time…” I ignored them. I’d located my quarry.

“Wendy!” I’d almost called her Winken.

She was decked out like a Christmas tree in head-to-toe Burberry. “The bartender told me you were over here. Do you mind?” I pulled out a chair and sat. She grimaced polite acquiescence, although obviously she wanted nothing to do with me.

“How are you, Clara? You remember my husband Gary?”

The man sitting catty-corner to her at the table was pushing seventy, but looked ten years younger, even with a full head of silver hair. A heavy tan seemed to be his only affectation. He wore a simple, well-cut suit, its jacket tossed over the back of the chair next to him, a gold Rolex, and his wedding ring. I vaguely remembered him from Hugh’s memorial service.

I reached across the table to shake his hand, maneuvering around their forest of martini glasses. They’d already gone two rounds and were working on their third. The waitress appeared at my elbow.

“Can I get you a drink?”

I held up my wine. “Good for the moment. Thanks.”

She nodded and disappeared.

“I was just telling the bartender about the great Women’s League projects we’re doing. That’s how your name came up.” Winken looked a little glazed. “What do you do, Gary?” Always ask what you already know. Lawyer trick. Socialite trick.

“I’m a doctor.”

“Do you practice here in town? I’m newly back and looking for a good one.”

“Uh, no.” He appeared somewhat alarmed. “I practice in the city, and, ­actually, my practice isn’t taking any new patients.”

Tiny frown lines formed between Winken’s eyebrows. She didn’t say anything, just smiled vacantly and picked up her glass. It was empty, so she fished out the olive and started to suck on it, somewhat noisily. Gary’s “my dear” could have iced over a California wildfire. Winken quieted immediately, like a well-disciplined child.

I asked, “Did you ever practice here in town?”

Winken started, rattling the table.

“Early in my career.” He covered for her smoothly. “I soon realized, though, that the city offered more. I got a great opportunity and took it. I’ve never looked back.”

“When did you move?”

“Over thirty years ago,” he said with pride.

That made the timing about right.

“Did you ever see my mother as a patient? When she was growing up?” I left it vague, hoping to provoke him. I wanted to ask about finances and the BRK notations in the files, but I couldn’t with all these people around.

“I don’t recall. It’s been quite a long time.” Winken got paler and paler. I wondered if she would pass out. Gary patted Winken’s hand. “Are you okay, my dear? You look a bit unwell. Maybe we should head into dinner.”

She nodded mutely.

“Clara, it has been lovely speaking with you. I’m sure we will see you here occasionally. Do give your mother our best in these difficult times. If there’s anything we can do to help…” He let it drift off.

“Actually, there is something,” I said.

He paused while shrugging his jacket straight.