Wyatt glanced from Patrick to his own door and then back. “Staying isn’t a good idea.”
“I didn’t do it, you know.” Patrick had no idea why he felt compelled to defend himself again after ten years. No one had believed him then. Nothing had changed.
Wyatt stared at him for a long moment. “Like I said, staying isn’t a good idea.” He walked into his house, letting the screen door slam behind him.
Annoyed with himself for caring so much, Patrick blew out a breath between pursed lips and headed back to the front of the house. He needed to get rid of this part of his life. For good.
Climbing the steps, he pulled out the key his stepfather’s attorney had given him a short time ago and unlocked the front door.
The clinking of silverware against china and the murmur of voices surrounded Shelby as she waited on everyone to finish their French donuts. After licking a dusting of powdered sugar from her lips, she took a sip of her second cup of coffee.
Across the table, Wendy began folding and unfolding her napkin. “I heard they might cancel the Mother of the Year Pageant.”
Jocelyn nodded. “Ava Renault mentioned that the planning committee has seriously been considering it.”
Wendy crossed her arms and rubbed her hands up and down her sleeves. “After Jillian Morrison got a note telling her to withdraw or end up dead and then poor Nancy Bailey had bleach thrown in her face—well, it’s a wonder anyone is willing to be a contestant. I certainly don’t want to be nominated.”
“What do you think about canceling it?” Shelby asked Jocelyn.
“On one hand, I see it as an act of respect for Angelina and Dylan’s deaths and Leah’s disappearance, but on the other hand, it means the town is giving in to fear. I hope they don’t cancel it.”
Looking from Shelby to Jocelyn, Wendy said, “I know y’all were close friends with Leah in high school so you know her better than almost anyone. Do you think there’s any truth to the rumor that Dylan Renault is Sarah’s father?”
Shelby bit her lip. It wasn’t possible, was it? Yet Dylan Renault’s dying words had been, “Sarah’s father.” Words whispered in the ear of FBI agent Sam Pierce, Jocelyn’s husband.
No one was sure what Dylan meant by them but there was plenty of speculation.
Sensing Shelby’s hesitation, Wendy arched her eyebrows. “You know something you aren’t telling us.”
Shaking her head in denial, Shelby said, “I only know that Leah worked as Dylan’s secretary before she married Earl and that Dylan made her uncomfortable with his attention. She stopped working for him pretty abruptly after that company Christmas party four years ago.”
Jocelyn tipped her head slightly as she stared at Shelby. “Did something happen at that party?”
A shiver ran over Shelby’s skin. She didn’t like thinking about that night. She had attended at Leah’s insistence but had become so ill she later fainted. The whole night was nothing but a weird blur.
Afterward, Shelby began having nightmares—the same dream over and over again. A disembodied face looking down at her, laughing at her.
Pushing aside thoughts of her haunting dream, Shelby nodded. “Something happened that upset Leah a great deal, but she never talked about it.”
Jocelyn pushed aside her plate and folded her hands on the table. “Have you told Sam about this?”
“No.”
“I think you should. The FBI has been searching for a connection between Leah’s disappearance and Dylan’s murder.”
“I wish I could remember more. I got sick at the party and Leah did, too. I have this dream about that night, but I’m not sure what it means.”
“I might be able to help,” Jocelyn suggested.
Embarrassed, Shelby shook her head. “It’s just a dream.”
Wendy’s eyes narrowed as she leaned forward. “Who else was there? Maybe they know something.”
“A lot of people were there, but most of them were friends of Dylan’s. Not exactly my social circle.”
Shelby glanced toward the door. A long-forgotten face swam into focus. “Wendell Bixby was there. He worked for Renault Corporation back then. I could talk to him and see if he remembers anything odd about Dylan or Leah’s behavior.”
“Such idle gossip benefits no one, Miss Mason.” The hard, cultured voice of Charla Renault caught Shelby unaware. She hadn’t heard Charla’s electric wheelchair coming up behind her.
The scent of White Shoulders perfume mingled with the coffee and cinnamon in the air. Shelby turned in her seat to face the mother of the most recent murder victim in Loomis.
Charla’s dark eyes glittered with cold anger. “My son was never interested in someone as common as Leah Farley.”
Shelby wished she hadn’t been caught in the act of talking about the woman’s son. She wanted to defend Leah, but Charla had a way of making Shelby, and most of Loomis, feel small and insignificant. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Renault.”
The man who worked as Charla’s driver and servant rose from the booth behind Shelby. He settled his hat on his thick gray hair and ran a hand down the front of his impeccably pressed black chauffeur’s jacket. Apparently, he had been waiting for Charla to finish her breakfast, because he nodded to her and asked, “Shall I bring the car around, madame?”
“Yes.” She dismissed him with a wave. Although Charla Renault maintained a regal air, neither wealth nor social position had spared the matriarch of the Renault family her share of pain. Confined to a wheelchair after the car accident that claimed her husband’s life, Charla still ruled the family with an iron fist in a kid glove.
Dressed today in a pink twinset with a simple choker of small pink pearls at her throat, Charla looked the epitome of Southern class, but the death of her only son had been a blow from which many wondered if she would ever recover. Now she had only her daughter, Ava, to carry on the family traditions and businesses.
The word that Ava had recently become engaged to Max Pershing, son of Charla’s archrival and longtime social enemy, Lenore Pershing, was a prime bit of news making the rounds. The two families had been feuding for ages. Shelby could only pray that Max and Ava’s love would put an end to their family’s long-standing grudge once and for all.
Jocelyn spoke up. “It’s nice to see you out and about, Mrs. Renault.”
“Thank you.” Charla inclined her head, ever so slightly. As always, not a single dark hair dared slip out of place or show the smallest touch of gray. In her lap, her Jack Russell terrier, Rhett, growled low in his throat.
Charla laid a hand on the dog’s head to silence him and focused her gaze on Shelby. “I was just on my way to see you, Miss Mason.”
Taken aback, Shelby stuttered, “You…you wanted to see me?”
“Yes. Since my son’s untimely passing, I have been pondering how best to honor his memory in the community that he served with such devotion and dignity. I am considering making a sizable donation to the city library in his name.”
Shelby was sure she must look like a stunned pelican with her gaping mouth. “Mrs. Renault, I’m not sure what to say.”
Charla held up one hand, silencing Shelby as easily as she had the dog. “I’m also considering funding a scholarship in his name at the college. I would, of course, need assurance that the institution I choose will provide a lasting memorial that is befitting of the Renault name. I’d like to see a proposal from the library board on such a memorial by the end of next week.”
“Next