The Gunny & The Jazz Singer (Birchwood Falls #1) by Jane Leopold Quinn Page A
Authors: Jane Leopold Quinn
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know the famous Marc Rahn of the winning touchdown of the last game
of the season…"
Marc held up his hand. "Don't
build me up like that. They'll never believe it. And how would they know about
that game?"
"Marc, every year the football
players are treated to that story."
"By the coaches?"
"And by me." Mike clapped
him on the shoulder. "Come on. Raise my standing here."
"I don't think this'll do it,
but I'm game."
Half an hour later, the awe clear
in the boys' eyes, he took his leave. A side trip to the auditorium to see the
WPA murals brought back another rush of memories. He'd spent many an hour in
assemblies daydreaming over those paintings. He certainly hadn't understood
their history and importance at the time.
Why had he feared returning to B
Falls all these years? There was a cathartic aspect to it he hadn't planned on.
The last several months of his youth had been the most painful of his life but
the many years before had been the best anyone could have asked for.
***
He'd finally accepted the fact that
B Falls couldn't hurt him anymore. The one task he hadn't been sure he could do
had become doable. Stopping at the florist shop, he picked up a spray of
gardenias and headed across the square to the church and the cemetery behind
it.
His heart beat fast as he
approached his parents' graves. The white marble stone gleamed in the sunlight.
His folks were together in death just as they'd been in life. There was some
comfort in that. Crouching, he placed the white flowers at the base of the
stone.
"Mom, you loved gardenias. You
told me so many times that you carried them at your wedding. I bet you thought
I wasn't listening." His voice lowered, his throat closing. "I
was."
The crack of a twig broke into his
thoughts, and he realized someone might be near. This was a private moment. No
one else should see it. "I miss you guys so much," he whispered.
***
"Ms. Logan. Thanks for meeting
me here." She was a gorgeous redhead, and he could have been interested if
he hadn't met Phoebe Barnes first.
"Call me Moira, Marc."
She sat where he indicated at a table near the back corner of the bar.
Mrs. Banning served them coffee,
chatted for a minute, then left them alone.
"What can I help you with?"
Marc got right to the point. "Eight
years ago my parents were killed in a car accident."
"I knew that. I'm sorry,"
Moira murmured.
"Thanks. The story was that my
dad must have been drunk and drove into the river. I've never wanted to believe
it, and now I don't. There was no reason for Dad to go off the road. Yeah, it
was late, but the streets were dry. We hadn't had snow yet, so the roads weren't
slippery. My dad wouldn't have driven drunk, and if he'd been iffy my mom
wouldn't have let him. There was damage to the front and right side of the car.
It was thought to be caused by hitting the rocks in the river."
"But you don't think so?"
"I think they were forced off
the road."
She took a sip of coffee. "But
you have no proof?"
"No. I came back on leave to
find out what happened. Butch Wilcox gave me a copy of the police file. The
blood test results were missing."
"The coroner's office?"
"Missing."
"Really?" Her eyes
narrowed beneath auburn eyebrows, her suspicions obviously aroused.
"They were checked out to the
police department. The signature on the sign-out log is incomprehensible.
Supposedly Butch gave me everything the police had…"
"Minus blood results."
Marc nodded. "I've talked to a
friend of my parents who had a store next door to theirs. He was bought out by
Harold Wilcox. An offer was made to my dad right before he was killed."
"Why was Wilcox buying the
stores?"
"You know his resort?"
She nodded.
"Well, that's where our store
was located."
"Oh."
"Right. You see where I'm
heading with this?"
"Do you suspect Mr. Wilcox of
having something to do with your parents' deaths? Or of the police covering it
up?"
"Certainly not at the time but
now that I've come back to town and found out that Wilcox
of the season…"
Marc held up his hand. "Don't
build me up like that. They'll never believe it. And how would they know about
that game?"
"Marc, every year the football
players are treated to that story."
"By the coaches?"
"And by me." Mike clapped
him on the shoulder. "Come on. Raise my standing here."
"I don't think this'll do it,
but I'm game."
Half an hour later, the awe clear
in the boys' eyes, he took his leave. A side trip to the auditorium to see the
WPA murals brought back another rush of memories. He'd spent many an hour in
assemblies daydreaming over those paintings. He certainly hadn't understood
their history and importance at the time.
Why had he feared returning to B
Falls all these years? There was a cathartic aspect to it he hadn't planned on.
The last several months of his youth had been the most painful of his life but
the many years before had been the best anyone could have asked for.
***
He'd finally accepted the fact that
B Falls couldn't hurt him anymore. The one task he hadn't been sure he could do
had become doable. Stopping at the florist shop, he picked up a spray of
gardenias and headed across the square to the church and the cemetery behind
it.
His heart beat fast as he
approached his parents' graves. The white marble stone gleamed in the sunlight.
His folks were together in death just as they'd been in life. There was some
comfort in that. Crouching, he placed the white flowers at the base of the
stone.
"Mom, you loved gardenias. You
told me so many times that you carried them at your wedding. I bet you thought
I wasn't listening." His voice lowered, his throat closing. "I
was."
The crack of a twig broke into his
thoughts, and he realized someone might be near. This was a private moment. No
one else should see it. "I miss you guys so much," he whispered.
***
"Ms. Logan. Thanks for meeting
me here." She was a gorgeous redhead, and he could have been interested if
he hadn't met Phoebe Barnes first.
"Call me Moira, Marc."
She sat where he indicated at a table near the back corner of the bar.
Mrs. Banning served them coffee,
chatted for a minute, then left them alone.
"What can I help you with?"
Marc got right to the point. "Eight
years ago my parents were killed in a car accident."
"I knew that. I'm sorry,"
Moira murmured.
"Thanks. The story was that my
dad must have been drunk and drove into the river. I've never wanted to believe
it, and now I don't. There was no reason for Dad to go off the road. Yeah, it
was late, but the streets were dry. We hadn't had snow yet, so the roads weren't
slippery. My dad wouldn't have driven drunk, and if he'd been iffy my mom
wouldn't have let him. There was damage to the front and right side of the car.
It was thought to be caused by hitting the rocks in the river."
"But you don't think so?"
"I think they were forced off
the road."
She took a sip of coffee. "But
you have no proof?"
"No. I came back on leave to
find out what happened. Butch Wilcox gave me a copy of the police file. The
blood test results were missing."
"The coroner's office?"
"Missing."
"Really?" Her eyes
narrowed beneath auburn eyebrows, her suspicions obviously aroused.
"They were checked out to the
police department. The signature on the sign-out log is incomprehensible.
Supposedly Butch gave me everything the police had…"
"Minus blood results."
Marc nodded. "I've talked to a
friend of my parents who had a store next door to theirs. He was bought out by
Harold Wilcox. An offer was made to my dad right before he was killed."
"Why was Wilcox buying the
stores?"
"You know his resort?"
She nodded.
"Well, that's where our store
was located."
"Oh."
"Right. You see where I'm
heading with this?"
"Do you suspect Mr. Wilcox of
having something to do with your parents' deaths? Or of the police covering it
up?"
"Certainly not at the time but
now that I've come back to town and found out that Wilcox
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