Shadow Notes by Laurel Peterson (cool books to read txt) 📗

a problem?” Why would it matter if it were me or the man in the moon?

“Uh, no. Of course not.” She straightened her WASP backbone and waved her hand vaguely in the air. “I just didn’t expect, um, anyone to be here when we came in.” She wandered off unsteadily.

What was that about? My stomach started flip-flopping, and I dropped my coffee in the trash.

So someone wanted me to back off asking questions about Mother’s ­problems. Who? If they thought they could scare me off, they didn’t understand my resistant personality. My soon-to-be-ex-husband understood that now. My lawyer had gotten her claws into him, and he was whining at me from the answering machine, calls I deleted every afternoon when I came home. I knew I’d have to deal with him eventually, but I couldn’t face him yet. One crisis at a time. I started listing questions:

Did last night’s intruder also leave the voodoo dolls?

Why did someone want me to stop asking questions? Did that mean Mother was innocent?

Who killed Hugh and why?

What was Mother’s trauma? Did the medical report from the cottage relate to it? Who could I ask to review it with me?

Who were the suspects?

Mary Ellen and Mother had a long history, but would she risk Andrew’s candidacy? Hetty had a grudge against me, but why would that make her kill Hugh and frame Mother? Maria seemed innocent, but the common wisdom said to look to the spouse. Did she have a motive? Why had Winken freaked out when Mother said she knew who the murderer was?

Hugh would know where the bodies were buried, but Hugh was gone, which took me back to Mother’s file. Maybe I could persuade Paul to give it me. Or maybe I should just go back to Plan A: chat up some of Mother’s friends. I wondered if Ernie Brown would tell me when and why Mother rented the cottage. The complicating factor was that I’d inherited my father’s half of their landscape architecture business, and a conversation about my role in the business was on the longish list of things I’d avoided for fifteen years.

Round and round the questions spun in my head. Who would give me a hook to pry open this Pandora’s box?

Late in the day, Mary Ellen arrived, dressed again in black Prada and spiky boots. She sidled my way and planted her tiny butt on the edge of my desk. “Working on anything interesting?”

“What’s up, Mary Ellen?” I could see why my mother had lost patience with this woman a long time ago.

“Just curious about how you’re getting along.”

I wondered idly if she saw herself as guileless. “Since you’ve known my mother for such a long time, maybe you can tell me about the major trauma in her life.” Going on the offensive made me feel I was getting off the merry-go-round in my brain.

Mary Ellen went still, like a lizard, but it took her only a moment to regroup: “I have no idea what that might be.” She stood, brushing off her skirt, as if my desk had sullied her designer wear.

So she did know.

She and her boots clacked their way to the door marked “Private.” It led to Andrew’s office, which he rarely used and which no one treated as private. He’d left hours ago for a meet and greet. She picked up the phone and turned her back even though I was too far away to overhear her conversation.

As I closed out the files, I noticed one from the first fundraiser I’d attended, where I’d seen Mayor Nat. Nat had been kind to me that evening and had said he would help. Mayors were public servants, right? That meant they always worked late…

Maybe I could catch him before he left for the day. I had plenty of time before I had to meet Pete at eight-thirty. I shouted a loud goodbye and hustled out. The cold December afternoon had added wind to its icy package, and ribbons of it wound up through my sleeves and around my neck. I scooted along the sidewalk, noticing that the windows were decorated festively with red and green velvet and those cutesy little caroling dolls that people collected and displayed in cloying groups. Too bad they didn’t do something useful, like actually carol rather than just spewing tinny recorded music from their tiny mouths.

The door to the town hall was open; I was in luck. The security guard—a token addition after 9/11 (what terrorist would bomb our town?)—lazily checked my bag and waved me through. Mueller’s office, he said, was on the third floor, elevator to my right. I rode up alone, marveling that buildings in this world still contained fake paneling and green indoor/outdoor carpet. Stepping into the hall, I recognized Lyle Lovett’s album It’s Not Big It’s Large working its way under a 1950s frosted glass door. “All Downhill” was the tune playing.

I knocked and heard a growled “What is it now?”

I turned the knob and went in.

He was huddled behind a desk piled high with papers. A large 7-Eleven cup rested precariously on a stack of books about campaign finance. Two green leather chairs faced him, one with duct tape patching its torn seat.

He grunted. “Wondered when you’d show up.” He waved at the chairs, and I sat.

“What do you mean?”

“I shouldn’t have brought up the dancing.” He brushed his hand across his face, and I had a sudden image of him gray-faced and gasping for breath.

The image disquieted me. “When did you last get some exercise?”

Surprised, he pulled at an eyebrow. “Exercise? In this job? That consists of walking to the podium.”

“You should make time for it,” I said, insistence perhaps too evident in my tone.

“You shouldn’t—” He faltered, then gave me a thoughtful look. “I’ll try. Now, what can I do for you so I can go home?”

“Do you know anything about Mother suffering a trauma? Does it, would it…have anything to do with Hugh’s murder?” I unwound my scarf, suddenly