“Don’t be,” Mac said.
The list of Erin’s personal effects was lying on the table. Mac picked it up. “What’s this?”
Mr. P. and I exchanged a look. He spoke before I could. “Those were the things Erin Fellowes had with her,” he said gently.
“That was Leila’s,” Mac said, pointing to something on the list. Mr. P. and I both leaned over to see what he was talking about—the tiny carved bird.
“It belonged to Leila, or at least she owned one. She got it six or seven months before the accident and she kept it in her desk at her office. It was a replica of a nineteenth-century Japanese piece. She was studying Asian art from that time period before she switched her major. She said it was to remind her of the person she wanted to be.” He shook his head. “It’s probably not the same one.”
I looked at Mr. P. wondering if we were thinking the same thing. Could that tiny bird have been Leila’s? Was Charlotte right? Had Erin brought it to show Mac? And if she had, why?
Chapter 17
Just before lunch I drove down to The Black Bear to get the photos Sam had unearthed of my dad. Sam had been my father’s best friend and even though I had Peter, who was my dad in every way, Sam also played a fatherly role in my life. I found him in his office, dollar store reading glasses on the end of his nose while he worked on the staff schedules.
“Hi, kiddo,” he said, coming around the desk to hug me. His shaggy hair was a mix of gray and blond and he was wearing it a bit shorter. “Do you have time for a cup of coffee?”
“I always have time for coffee, especially with you,” I said.
Sam gestured at the sofa. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.” As he passed his desk he grabbed an envelope and held it out to me.
“The pictures?” I asked, taking it from him.
He nodded. “They’re from back when we started the band. Back when we were young and foolish.” He smiled and gave his head a little shake. “I’ll just be a minute.”
I sat down on the sofa and opened the envelope. There were half a dozen photos inside, and for me it was like having a time machine. There was my dad, so young—barely in his twenties—and Sam standing beside an old van that was more primer than paint. I studied my father’s face. Gram always said that I had his eyes and smile and I could see that was true in the two pictures where he was holding baby me in his arms.
Sam came back with a couple of coffee mugs. He sat down beside me, leaning sideways to see what photo I was looking at. He rolled his eyes. “That was Gertie,” he said. “The van,” he added in response to my quizzical look. “The muffler made a god-awful rattle and the springs were shot but your dad said that we had to have a way to move our gear other than trying to take it on the bus.” He laughed. “Man, was I ever that young?”
“I think both of you were very cute,” I teased. “Look at that hair.” In the photo both Sam and Dad wore their hair almost to their shoulders, layered and waved back from their faces.
“Don’t make fun of my hair,” Sam warned. “That used to take me a half an hour with a blow-dryer and a can of mousse. I’m probably personally responsible for any hole in the ozone layer.”
We looked through the rest of the photos. Seeing my father so young and happy made me smile and gave me a lump in my throat all at the same time. I had a sense that Sam was feeling the same way.
He looked around the office. “I wonder sometimes what he’d think of this place.”
“I think he’d love it,” I said. “According to Mom and Gram he loved anything that had to do with music.”
Sam nodded, thumb and finger stroking his beard. “That he did. Something special happened when he was performing. The only thing that made him happier was you.” He studied me for a long moment. “He would have been proud of the woman you turned into.”
I felt the prickle of tears and had to blink hard a couple of times. I reached over and picked up the small brass monkey he kept on his desk to distract myself. The monkey, which had both hands over its mouth, had been given to him by my dad, a reminder Sam said, to think before he spoke. I’d always suspected there was a bit more to the story but Sam had never been forthcoming on the subject. The metal warmed in my hands and after a moment I set the monkey back on the desk.
“Some days I wish I could just sit and talk to him for a few minutes,” I said.
Sam nodded. “Me, too, kiddo.”
We talked for a few more minutes and then I looked at my watch. “I should get back to the shop,” I said.
“I’m glad you came,” he said. He indicated the photos. “You can keep those. I made copies.”
I hugged him again.
On the way out through the restaurant I noticed Jackson Montgomery just being seated. “I see someone I need to speak to,” I said.
“And I better get to the kitchen,” Sam said. “I’ll see you next Thursday at the jam if I don’t see you sooner.”
I nodded. “My favorite night of the week.”
I walked over to Jackson’s table. He looked up from his menu and smiled. “Hi, Sarah,” he said. “Are you here for lunch, too?”
I shook my head. “I just came to see Sam.” I gestured in the direction of the kitchen. “He’s the owner.”
Jackson indicated the other chair at the table. “Do you have time to join me?” he asked.
I hesitated. I hadn’t said what time I’d be back and Charlotte had urged me to take my time. “All right,” I said. “Thank you.” I took the chair across from him, setting my purse and the envelope with the photos on the floor at my feet.
“So what’s good here?” Jackson asked, tapping the menu with one finger.
“Everything,” I said, “but I think you’d like the house burger.”
“All right,” he said with a smile. He looked around and a waiter started in our direction. Jackson reminded me of Jess, who could look up no matter what restaurant we were in and have a server immediately at the table.
“Slaw and rings?” the waiter, whose name was Caleb, asked. “Or fries?”
Jackson’s gaze darted to me.
“Slaw and rings,” I said. “I promise you won’t be sorry.”
“For both of us, please,” he said to our waiter.
Once the young man had collected our menus and headed for the kitchen, Jackson leaned back in his chair. “Mac called me earlier. We didn’t talk very long but it’s a start.”
“It is,” I agreed. I’d hoped that Mac might call his friend after what he’d said earlier about Jackson’s insight into Davis Abbott.
“I offered to take his case again. He turned me down but if you think he needs my help will you call, please, Sarah?” He pulled a business card out of his pocket, took out a pen and scrawled something on the back. “That’s my cell.”
“Mac already has a very good lawyer.”
“I wasn’t trying to imply he didn’t. It’s just that . . .” He made a helpless gesture with one hand. “I’d like to help if I can.”
I took the card and tucked it in my purse.
The waiter returned with a large china mug and the coffeepot. I smiled a thank-you and added cream and sugar to my coffee. “You and Mac have been friends for a long time,” I said.
Jackson nodded. “Since we were kids. Ever see him play baseball?”
“A couple of times in a charity game for the animal shelter.”
“Can he still hit it out to left field?”
“And then some,” I said. “How long has he been making those killer buffalo wings?”
“He still makes those?” Jackson asked.
“As often as we can talk him into it.”
Now it was Jackson’s turn to smile. “He perfected them back when we were in college. You’ve heard of the freshman fifteen?”