One thing he knew about himself was that he would never walk away from a child. If Gracie were pregnant, he would do the right thing. If he knew what that was. And if he knew her, she’d have firm thoughts on the subject. The idea was still too obscure to dwell on, but his mind kept circling back to it. Maybe because he’d been taught that family was the most important thing in life. Grandfather always said, “Family is worth more than money, fame, or power. The one thing worth fighting for.”
He had plenty of family already, and he thought he knew them well. But he didn’t know them as well as he thought. Obviously, his mother had kept secrets from him. His father’s and her own. And maybe he didn’t know Arthur very well either. Dylan intended to make it his business to find out more about his uncle. Today.
Dylan parked at the curb. They went into an original fifties-style diner that was too authentic, too worn and seedy to be considered retro. Arthur was already there, camped in a red vinyl booth with his back to the door.
Dylan and Gracie slid onto the bench across from him. After the three of them had placed orders, the waitress delivered coffee all around. Uncle Arthur asked about David.
“Clay says he’s much better this morning. But I’m anxious to get there and see for myself.”
“Of course.” Arthur sipped his coffee. “And how’s Clayton this morning?”
“Clay?” Gracie’s eyes widened in surprise. “He’s as relieved as I am and a lot more tired. Have you met him?”
“No, but I’ve heard a lot about him.”
“Really?” Gracie frowned. “How? Why? The paternity issue?”
“You might get to know him, Uncle, if it turns out he’s a relative of ours.” Dylan watched him closely. “Natalie and I’ve decided to go ahead with the DNA testing.”
Was Arthur’s hand trembling a bit as he lifted the cup? “I thought you were opposed to the idea.”
“Maybe it’s just being here in this town where everyone assumes he’s a Bradford, but I believe it’s a possibility. But you’ve never given me your opinion. Do you think Clayton Harris is a Bradford?”
Arthur tipped his head back and forth as if weighing the question. “I don’t think he’s your father’s son, no.”
Dylan nodded. “But there are other possibilities, aren’t there? Gracie and I were discussing who else the father might be the night the fire broke out at the cabin.”
“I still can’t believe a fire destroyed the old place. What a terrible waste. Although the value is all in the property, not the structure. It won’t be a financial loss.” Arthur stirred sugar into his coffee. “I’ll drive out there this morning. Do you have time to come with me?”
“Probably.” Dylan didn’t even blink at his uncle’s change of topic. “Do you want to go straight from here?”
“Sure. That would be—“He broke off and lifted his phone from his shirt pocket, checking the display. “Damn, it’s the office. If you’ll excuse me. I’ll have to check in.”
“Did you hear his phone?” Dylan asked after Arthur stepped away to make his call in private.
Gracie shrugged. “Maybe it’s set to vibrate instead of beep.”
She chatted with the waitress who delivered their food. Dylan kept a close eye on his uncle.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said, returning to the table but not resuming his seat. “I’m going to have to take a conference call with some committee members. Why this couldn’t have been set up yesterday when I was still in DC, I don’t know. You two go ahead and enjoy your meal. I’ll catch up with you later.” He tossed some bills on the table.
“Want to meet us at the festival this afternoon?” Dylan asked.
“Perfect.” Arthur checked his watch like any busy man with a full schedule. “Where should we meet? The south side of the town square? Three o’clock?” He backpedaled toward the door, opening it as Dylan called out his agreement.
“Did that interruption seem a little coincidental to you?” Gracie asked.
“What are you suggesting? That my uncle would use government business as an excuse to avoid further questioning?” He watched out the window as his uncle bowled into someone on the sidewalk. A tallish woman with cotton-candy blond hair. Instead of hurrying on, Arthur paused.
“You know him better than I do,” Gracie said. “What do you think?”
“Last week, I would have said no way. But today, I’m not so sure. Hang on a second.” He stepped over to the window, getting a glimpse of the woman on the street as she and his uncle walked away together. She undulated her hips and fluttered her hands as Arthur strode stiffly along. “Karen Hammonds,” he muttered. “Damn! Why does she keep turning up? And what is she doing in town?”
Dylan returned to Gracie and their meal. She remained quiet while he became lost in a tangled maze of thoughts about his father, his uncle, Lana Harris, Karen Hammonds, Clayton, David, the fire, and Henry Stillberg. He looked up between bites to find her watching him, worry lines tucked between her brows.
He twined his fingers through hers. “I guess I’m not being good company.”
“I’m a good listener if you want a sounding board.”
She’d done plenty to earn his confidence. He decided to try out one of his more far-fetched theories on her. “Okay. I think you’re—”
“Police chief,” Gracie said under her breath, then smiled at the big man heading toward them. “How are you? You didn’t get much more sleep last night than you did the night before, did you?”
“You heard about Henry?” he asked, hat in hand.
She nodded. “From Clay. What happened?”
“I don’t know yet.” He turned to Dylan. “I’d like you to come over to my office to answer a few questions.”
“Me?” Dylan pressed fingertips to his chest. “Why?”
Fleming gestured toward the door. “Just come with me.”
Dylan prepared to follow, a sense of dread settling uneasily on top of the blueberry pancakes he’d polished off.
“I’m coming, too,” Gracie said.
“No need,” Dylan told her, but being Gracie, she joined them anyway, haranguing the police chief as they marched the two blocks across town.
Dylan tried again after she joined him in the cluttered office. “David and Clay need you more than I do.”
“No, they don’t. I called Clay again, and everything’s under control. And you may need an alibi.” She whispered the last as if it were a big secret.
Dylan smiled at her melodramatic tone. “I’m sure the police chief will know where to find you if he needs you.”
She poked him with her elbow. “Yes, because I’ll be right here beside you.”
“Gracie, you don’t need to be here,” Chief Fleming said as he returned to his office.
Dylan gave her an I-told-you-so-look, although he liked having her at his side. She knew the police chief and small town expectations better than he did, her intelligence was off the charts, and he’d come to appreciate her people skills.
“Does Dylan need an attorney present?”
“I don’t know, does he?” Fleming countered from behind a desk strewn with papers, files, framed photos, coffee cups, and a half-eaten Danish.
A sliver of alarm sliced through his stomach. “Are you arresting me?” He hadn’t considered the possibility.
The police chief waved the question away. “We aren’t anywhere near that point. Yet. You can have an attorney present if you want, but it’s not necessary.”
Dylan let out the breath he’d been holding. “What’s this about?”
Fleming picked up a file and perused the first page. “Someone ran Henry Stillberg’s car off the road near Liberty Bluff. Mind telling me where you were last night between eleven and one?”
He paused to marshal his thoughts.
Next to him, Gracie drew in a sharp breath. “He was with me,” she stated, flashing Dylan her own version of I-told-you-so.
Fleming leaned back and twirled a pen through his fingers. “Were you out of her sight at any time?”