jargon. Delighted to see him finally stumble out of her sight, she began to drive back to the Craft Corner, her foot heavy on the gas pedal, until she realized there was no way she’d be able to calmly resume work on her jewelry. Nor did she want to face Carrie’s questions. She needed time to cool down and gather her thoughts. She turned toward the little park she had passed often on her drives between home and work, and hoped that in the middle of a school day it would be unpopulated and quiet, offering her a few moments of peace.
Her hopes rose as she pulled into the parking lot and saw only two cars in an area that could hold twenty. Jo got out and began to walk rapidly, following a paved lane that wound past rhododendron and azalea plantings, all long past their bloom times and readying for the cold weather that was to come. A cool breeze hinted it was already on its way, and Jo pulled her light cardigan together more tightly and brushed back the dark bangs that had blown into her eyes. She came to a statue of a man in Civil War uniform and paused to check out the engraved sign at its base, while slowing down her breathing as best she could.
A white-haired man in gray shorts and T-shirt jogged by, puffing out a breathy “mornin’.” Jo returned the greeting, managing a stiff smile, then turned back to the bronze soldier. Brigadier General Jeremiah Boggsworth, she learned, scanning the sign, was a native son of Abbotsville, born in 1811. He had died during the War Between the States in 1862, not in a blaze of glory on the battlefield, unfortunately, but of infection caused by a rusty horseshoe nail. Poor General Boggsworth, Jo thought. Done in by an ignominious puncture. Not unlike Kyle. It was just her miserable luck that Kyle’s occurred in her craft shop.
Jo sighed, and pushed her hands into the pockets of her sweater. She moved on, running over the previous hour spent enduring Russ Morgan’s near-accusations. They continued to make her blood boil, but she realized her situation had grown even more serious. Morgan seemed determined to find that final link that would let him charge her with murder. She could almost hear the prosecutor’s words to the jury, as she sat trembling behind the defendant’s table:
“Ladies and gentlemen, I put it to you that what we have here is a cold-blooded murderer. This woman allowed nothing to stand in her way—not a husband whose death would bring her riches, nor a poor, struggling actor who happened to be witness to her . . .”
Her what? What did Russ Morgan think Kyle knew about her that she would be willing to murder him for? What was Niles hinting about her? Jo knew Niles could be unconscionable in his business dealings, but what would he stoop to, what lies would he tell or maybe even half-believe in a misguided attempt at family revenge? Did he truly believe Jo was guilty of his nephew’s murder?
Whatever was going on, it was clear Jo needed to find out the truth of what happened in her storeroom before some wild, devious theory was devised and then believed by one and all. Until now, she had been dabbling at investigation, humoring her crafting ladies and reassuring herself that she was doing something active. Now the stakes had been raised. Jo needed to find out who actually killed Kyle Sandborn, and find out fast, while she was still a free woman.
What exactly had she managed to dig up about Kyle? His coworkers at the country club hinted that he liked to poke into other people’s business and imagine wrongdoing on little evidence. Not unlike his Uncle Niles, Jo laughed grimly, then wondered: had she met Kyle in New York?
Jo thought back to her few visits to Niles’ consignment shop, on Broadway, north of Houston. There had always been people around such as sales clerks and customers looking for bargains. Occasionally he had introduced her as a jewelry designer, but she didn’t recall ever meeting a nephew. If it had happened, it had been a nonevent, a
Her hopes rose as she pulled into the parking lot and saw only two cars in an area that could hold twenty. Jo got out and began to walk rapidly, following a paved lane that wound past rhododendron and azalea plantings, all long past their bloom times and readying for the cold weather that was to come. A cool breeze hinted it was already on its way, and Jo pulled her light cardigan together more tightly and brushed back the dark bangs that had blown into her eyes. She came to a statue of a man in Civil War uniform and paused to check out the engraved sign at its base, while slowing down her breathing as best she could.
A white-haired man in gray shorts and T-shirt jogged by, puffing out a breathy “mornin’.” Jo returned the greeting, managing a stiff smile, then turned back to the bronze soldier. Brigadier General Jeremiah Boggsworth, she learned, scanning the sign, was a native son of Abbotsville, born in 1811. He had died during the War Between the States in 1862, not in a blaze of glory on the battlefield, unfortunately, but of infection caused by a rusty horseshoe nail. Poor General Boggsworth, Jo thought. Done in by an ignominious puncture. Not unlike Kyle. It was just her miserable luck that Kyle’s occurred in her craft shop.
Jo sighed, and pushed her hands into the pockets of her sweater. She moved on, running over the previous hour spent enduring Russ Morgan’s near-accusations. They continued to make her blood boil, but she realized her situation had grown even more serious. Morgan seemed determined to find that final link that would let him charge her with murder. She could almost hear the prosecutor’s words to the jury, as she sat trembling behind the defendant’s table:
“Ladies and gentlemen, I put it to you that what we have here is a cold-blooded murderer. This woman allowed nothing to stand in her way—not a husband whose death would bring her riches, nor a poor, struggling actor who happened to be witness to her . . .”
Her what? What did Russ Morgan think Kyle knew about her that she would be willing to murder him for? What was Niles hinting about her? Jo knew Niles could be unconscionable in his business dealings, but what would he stoop to, what lies would he tell or maybe even half-believe in a misguided attempt at family revenge? Did he truly believe Jo was guilty of his nephew’s murder?
Whatever was going on, it was clear Jo needed to find out the truth of what happened in her storeroom before some wild, devious theory was devised and then believed by one and all. Until now, she had been dabbling at investigation, humoring her crafting ladies and reassuring herself that she was doing something active. Now the stakes had been raised. Jo needed to find out who actually killed Kyle Sandborn, and find out fast, while she was still a free woman.
What exactly had she managed to dig up about Kyle? His coworkers at the country club hinted that he liked to poke into other people’s business and imagine wrongdoing on little evidence. Not unlike his Uncle Niles, Jo laughed grimly, then wondered: had she met Kyle in New York?
Jo thought back to her few visits to Niles’ consignment shop, on Broadway, north of Houston. There had always been people around such as sales clerks and customers looking for bargains. Occasionally he had introduced her as a jewelry designer, but she didn’t recall ever meeting a nephew. If it had happened, it had been a nonevent, a
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