Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake) by Rachel Caine (books to read in your 20s female TXT) 📕

she went for her doctor visit. I just don’t know. I don’t write it down, you know. And I’m not a snoop.”

“Of course not,” I lie smoothly. “You’re just interested in your neighbors. That’s normal.”

“It’s just being friendly,” she says. “Unlike these young folk. All they do is stare at the TV and their damn phones and such. Don’t even go out on the porch in the evenings like normal people. I just don’t know—”

What the world is coming to, I finish mentally, and jump in. “Do you know who Sheryl’s obstetrician would have been?”

“Only one around here,” she says. “Dr. Fowler, and he’s even older than I am, probably still pushing cod liver oil on those poor babies.” She makes a face. “Your mother ever make you take that stuff?”

“Past my time,” I tell her, and she pats my hand.

“Well, good for you, dear, good for you. Anyway, Dr. Fowler would be the only place she’d go if you’re asking about that.” She gives me a too-sharp look. “You know some folks ’round here think her husband didn’t just leave, don’t you? That it was something else?”

“Like what?”

She leans over the table, and her eyes are bright with interest. “Some say he was murdered.”

“No!”

“Well, that’s what I heard. Not that I’d know for sure, of course. But some folks say it sure was convenient how she got his money and house and car easy as pie. He weren’t wealthy or nothing, but she came here poor as country dirt, and now she’s got a roof over her head and a car to drive and money to spend.”

“You knew her when she first came?”

“Before she got married? She came in on the bus, just some rough little baggage. Got herself a job at that Sonic near the edge of town. That’s where she met Tommy Jarrett, and I guess that was all it took. Don’t know anything about her other than that, though. Maybe she was just down on her luck. I was born just before the Depression, did you know?”

“I didn’t,” I say, and I listen politely to her tales of growing up amid poverty even more desperate than it is today. I don’t know how much of it is true, but it doesn’t matter, and it makes her happy. I leave her my card, in case she thinks of anything else. Mrs. Gregg is nice enough, and a busybody is always useful.

I’m on my way out the door when, out of the blue, she says, “And you know about that man, don’t you?”

I turn to face her. “What man?” I feel my heartbeat kick up to a higher gear.

“The one in the white van, of course. Used to drive by her house quite regular. Always at night.”

“And did he stop at her house?”

“Never. But he always slowed down.” Mrs. Gregg looks very pleased with herself. I want to kiss her.

“Think hard. Did he stop at anyone else’s house that you know of?”

“Not on this block, no.”

“And you didn’t recognize him?”

She snorts. “Well, of course I did! You didn’t ask that.”

Jesus take the wheel. I force myself to be calm. “Okay, now I’m asking: Who was in the van?”

“Douglas Adam Prinker. Lives over on Adams, out near the old Dairy Queen, the one they closed down about ten years back.”

I take out my notebook and write all that down, along with white van and several exclamation points. “Thank you, Mrs. Gregg. That’s helpful. Anything else?”

“No, I don’t think so,” she says. “Y’all be safe out there. Those poor, poor little children.” She clucks her tongue and closes the door.

I start for my borrowed truck, but I spot a man loitering near it. He looks like a cop, and I don’t want to get into that. Not until I make a bit more progress. So I hit a few more houses, taking precautions every time as promised. Two want nothing to do with me and close the door in my face. One asks if there’s a reward. I tell him there’s not, and he immediately loses interest. Sheryl’s next-door neighbor is surly and makes me damn glad I’ve texted my whereabouts, but he does support what Mrs. Gregg’s told me about the day Tommy left; nobody saw any sign he was packing, and the neighbor describes Tommy as an outdoorsman, often gone fishing or hunting. Not unusual around here at all.

He doesn’t seem to have any suspicions about Sheryl. In fact, he’s adamant that she’s a good woman and a good mother, and seems very certain of it.

I wonder how he’d feel if he knew about her past.

Nobody else seems to have noticed Douglas Adam Prinker or his white van, and I sure hope it’s not made up out of whole cloth. That’s the drawback of busybody neighbors; I was the victim of one when the news about Melvin first broke. She swore up and down that she saw me helping him carry a woman into the house. It was a lie, told for attention and because she was certain I deserved the punishment anyway.

I don’t think Mrs. Gregg is lying. I just have built-in wariness that’s hard to shake.

I get met at the last door I knock on with a shotgun, which persuades me it’s past time to be going. The phone lines, I’m certain, have been burning up, and Mrs. Gregg will have spread news of my interest far and wide. That might be useful. But for now, it renders me persona non grata.

Unfortunately, the cop I spotted earlier is still waiting by Sam’s truck when I approach, and I slow down to figure him out. He’s a youngish man, tall, paler skin than most, and developing what looks like an uncomfortable sunburn. Blond hair and very blue eyes. He’s wearing khaki slacks and a button-down, and he straightens up when I come closer and offers me a handshake. I don’t accept. “That’s my truck,” I say.

“Technically, it’s not. I checked,” he replies, and takes a card from his pocket. “Randall Heidt, Tennessee Bureau of Investigation.