A Question of Honor by Mary Anne Wilson Page B

in his early seventies, was intently polishing a display of snow globes on a glass case near the window. He looked up as soon as the door opened.
    “Well, good morning, missy. It’s a great day,” he said, the same greeting he’d used every time she’d visited.
    ”Good morning,” Faith had replied and picked up an empty shopping basket, walking back to the grocery area.
    “Got some of that fancy creamer in, if you want to try some,” he called after her.
    “Thanks,” she said and ducked into the dry-goods aisle, where she reached for the packets of instant coffee. After debating with herself whether to buy both cookies and chips, she decided she had all that she needed and went to pay. As she passed the newspaper stand, she glanced at the news and stopped abruptly.
    A copy of a national newspaper had slipped off the stack, and its sections had separated and splayed on the floor. The headline of the business section reflected her worst nightmare. She crouched, pulling that section free with a shaky hand, then stood and stared at six photographs lined up neatly, head and shoulder shots.
    Raymond Sizemore was dead center, his partners on either side and the top financial officers from the company filling in the last squares. Above the pictures were the words Grand Jury Indictments? and below, a blurb about testimony starting today in the case against... Faith didn’t know if she should drop the paper and run, or stand there and cry.
    Aware that Oscar was watching her from the cash register, she reached down for the rest of the newspaper sections and pushed the financial one out of sight between them. She put the paper on the counter and almost forgot the basket sitting on the floor by her feet. She didn’t even remember putting it down. Quickly, she grabbed it, pushed the newspaper on top of the food and drinks, then looked at Oscar.
    “Hungry, huh?” he said conversationally as he scanned the contents of her basket.
    “A bit,” she murmured. “What do I owe you?”
    He gave her a total and she paid cash. Then she reached for the two bags he’d stacked her things in, thanked him and headed for the door.
    “Oh, missy,” Oscar called after her.
    She turned. “Yes?”
    He was smiling at her and holding out something for her. “Here, take these. Try them, and when you come back in, you might want a few to make that instant coffee drinkable.”
    Reluctantly, she hurried over to him and he dropped the small creamers in the nearest bag she was holding.
    At the inn, she felt sick as she dumped her bags on the bed in her room and dug out the newspaper. Spreading the financial section on the still-unmade bed, she read quickly about the possible indictment, other grand-jury witnesses that she had never heard of and the fact that the prosecutor was saying the process could be lengthy.
    She followed the story to an inside page and breathed a huge sigh of relief when she found no photos attached to that section. There was also no mention of her at all. Was that planned, or was that because she had been dropped from the possible-witnesses list?
    She closed the paper, folded it several times and placed it in the trash can by the bed. She dropped down on the bed by the bags and reached to pick up her cell phone. She turned it on for the first time since she’d called her dad the night of the dance and put in Dent’s number. The phone rang several times before going to an answering machine. She hung up.
    She decided to walk over to Dent’s and find out about her car. The piece in the paper had really affected her—all she could think of was getting on the move and not stopping for days. Her forced stay in Wolf Lake had not done her any favors. She grabbed her jacket and slipped it on.
    She was getting tangled up with these people, good people, kind people, from Mallory to Oscar to Willie G. to Adam. But they were finding out too much about her, and if there had been a picture with that article... She picked up her wallet