She searched the crowd. Was he here somewhere? Watching her? Had someone in town kidnapped the woman? Was one of them a rapist? A murderer?
Amber’s picture flashed through her head again. Light blond hair, green eyes. She was only twenty-five. Although Violet didn’t remember all her customers, she’d noticed this girl in the shop the day before. Amber had been especially friendly. Once she’d sampled the pecan pralines, she’d bought five tins, claiming she had a bad habit of eating late at night when she was studying. Violet had laughed because she used to do the same thing, her affinity for café mochas and Snickers bars costing her five pounds every exam week.
Shaking off the unsettling feeling that she and Amber would have become friends, Violet crossed the street, frowning at the driver of a black sedan who nearly skimmed her knees with his bumper as he raced through the stop sign. The scents of crawfish étouffée, shrimp and beer oozing from Tubby’s Tank House, and the rich aroma of chocolate from Carlotta’s Candy Shop, wafted around her. Unfortunately, the stale smell of too much partying and sweaty bodies lingered from the night before, as well, reminding Violet of the seedy side of Savannah nightlife. The side she avoided.
The clatter of glasses and the murmur of voices drifted through the balmy summer air, the sidewalk choked with early morning browsers. A couple of homeless men lay sleeping off their liquor in the trash-filled alley. Pigeons pecked along the Savannah River shoreline, searching for crumbs, the occasional blast of a ship’s horn startling them into a skitter. In contrast, the horse-drawn tourist carriages clip-clopped along, adding to the genteel historic atmosphere.
Her grandmother’s parting words rang in her ears: “Please be careful, Violet. Make sure no one is following you.” She’d shrugged off the warning, knowing her grandmother had been spooked by the report on the missing woman. But she couldn’t dismiss the reality that a madman might be stalking innocent women in Savannah.
GRADY DROVE THROUGH the town square, making his usual noon rounds, still contemplating the argument he’d heard between his father and Baker. Why was someone asking questions about a twenty-year-old murder? And why did his dad and Baker want to keep quiet? His father had claimed he wanted Darlene’s killer caught….
In fact, her unsolved murder had been an obsession with both Monroe males. The absence of Darlene at the dinner table had not only ended the family Sunday night dinner tradition, it had torn them apart completely. His dad had begun substituting liquor-for-one for the family meal. Booze and anger, a deadly combination that had grown worse over the years.
Grady had borne the brunt of his temper.
Because he was responsible.
The fact that he and Darlene hadn’t shared the same mother hadn’t made a difference to Grady; the guilt had been the same. And his father had never let him forget that he should have been home watching her the day she’d been kidnapped.
Wiping sweat from his brow, Grady scanned the streets, passing the hardware store, the small bookstore Serena James had opened last year, and the barbershop the Chutney couple manned together. He parked in front of the Redbud Café, cut the engine and headed inside.
The homey scents of fried chicken, meat loaf, green beans and apple pie floated through the ancient establishment. Adobe-colored tablecloths and curtains in turquoise matched the clay-colored laminate tops of the booths and tables. The pale yellow walls held a wide assortment of framed Indian arrowheads, spears and pipes, showcasing the owner, Laney Longhorse’s, penchant for preserving the history of the area. She loved reciting tales of the ancient customs, especially the religious tribal dances and traditions. Some of them were pretty damn eerie. As were those bone artifacts displayed on the wall. Her son, Joseph, collected them. Grady wondered if he’d found them or killed the animals first, then hung them to show off his hunting skills.
Kerry Cantrell, an attractive blonde a few years younger than him, offered a flirty smile and sauntered toward him. She’d been throwing out vibes for months. Maybe one day he’d ask her out. Then again, that would piss off Joseph Longhorse, who worked at the diner. The Native American had been chasing Kerry ever since she’d moved to Crow’s Landing. He already hated Grady, had since he was a child, although Grady didn’t know why. He’d actually tried to stand up for the kid one time, but Joseph had snarled that he didn’t want or need Grady’s help.
“Hey, Grady. Want some sweet potato pie with that coffee?” Or a piece of me, her eyes suggested.
“Pie sounds good.” He contemplated her silent offer. It had been a long time since he’d been with a woman. They always wanted more than he could give.
She handed him the dessert, letting her fingers brush his knuckles. “Anything else you want, you just holler, sweetie.”
Joseph suddenly appeared through the back door, his shoulder-length black hair tied into a ponytail with a leather thong, his black eyes blazing fire at Grady. Shit, let the man have her. He sure as hell wasn’t getting into a fight over a woman. That close call with Luanne years ago had taught him better sense. No woman could understood his obsession with solving Darlene’s murder.
Besides, Kerry had that look about her that said she wanted the whole package.
“Kerry, can we get some service over here?” Bart Stancil, a crotchety old man who practically lived on the vinyl bar stool, flicked a wrinkled hand.
Kerry winked at Grady, then pranced toward Bart, coffeepot in hand.
Grady ate his pie in silence, studying the other regulars. Agnes Potts and Blanche Haney, two widow women who organized the Meals on Wheels program at the church, waved at him from their biscuits and hash browns, while a teenage couple cuddled in the corner, feeding each other ice cream sundaes.
Tate, the incompetent sheriff Grady had replaced a few months ago, folded his beefy body over a stool, glaring at him. Tate had bungled Darlene’s murder investigation years ago. Unfortunately, the man owned half the town and was now mayor, which meant Grady still had to work with him.
Mavis Dobbins and her son, Dwayne, claimed their usual corner booth. Dwayne was in his thirties now, but he’d had some sort of accident at age fourteen that had triggered a psychotic break. If Grady remembered correctly, the doctors diagnosed him as bipolar. He still lived with his mama. Dwayne laid out three sugar packets for his coffee, then ordered his usual—three eggs, three biscuits, three slices of bacon.
Grady pushed away the remaining pie, his stomach churning. Years ago, when Dwayne was sixteen, Grady’s dad had paid him to do yardwork. When Grady had noticed him watching Darlene, he’d threatened to beat him up if he touched her. He’d always wondered if Dwayne had something to do with Darlene’s disappearance.
The lunch crowd drifted in slowly, and Grady caught a sharp look from Ross Wheeler. The minister’s son, Wheeler was a former teacher who’d lost his job because of complaints of sexual misconduct from female students at the high school. Wheeler had denied the charges, and they’d finally been dropped, but his reputation as an educator had been ruined. Grady had been shocked when Wheeler stayed in Crow’s Landing. He still hadn’t decided whether the man had been guilty or victimized.
Grady tossed a few bills on the counter, nodding goodbye to Kerry as he walked to the door. Maybe he’d ride up and check out that rabid dog report. Not much else to do today.
Tonight he’d look over the files on Darlene’s case. One more time.
Outside, he noticed Laney Longhorse talking to his father. She turned in a huff, then gathered a group of Cherokee children into a circle. Her long gray braid swung around her shoulders as she spoke. “The power of the circle,” she said, crooked teeth shining. “Just as the sky is round, and the stars and the moon. The sun comes forth and goes down again in a circle. The seasons form a circle in their changing, always come back to where they were. The life of a man is a circle from childhood to childhood, and so it is in everything where power moves.”
Grady