“Ever think she might’ve been cold?”
Cholly’s hairline slipped back. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she’d worked some roots on you or something.”
I darted a glance at the billboard again and muttered, “Or somethin’.” Then I shrugged and roared off, heading south toward Bradford Realty.
CHAPTER NINE
Noise Pollution
SHANNON
____________________________
“Here’s another from the Camelot theme, sweetie.” Auntie added a snapshot of a medieval-style wedding gown to the photo stack. Hummingbird small, the wispy five-foot-nothing matriarch came around my desk, and a cloud of Muguet Du Bonheur followed. “Isn’t it fabulous?” She tapped a pearl-white fingernail on the picture. “They’re amber studs. The belt comes with gems or in faux gold. They call it a cotehardie.”
I gave the photo a halfhearted glance, my attention everywhere but on the dress. “It’s lovely, Auntie.”
“And the train is attached by cabochon buttons. There’s even a matching velvet cape. Perfect for a winter wedding….”
As Auntie prattled on, my attention drifted to the wall clock for the millionth time, and to the undeniable conclusion that Trace hadn’t believed me.
If he had, he would’ve called by now.
Keeping my mind on work proved impossible. I’d tossed and turned last night. Hadn’t eaten all day. How could I when my stomach was tied in a million knots?
When Auntie had stormed in an hour ago toting a Rubbermaid box filled with wedding paraphernalia, I’d wanted to scream. Hesta Bradford was an adrenaline factory.
Normally, that energy was infectious, but concerns about Trace, Darien, tomorrow’s anniversary luncheon, and my ignored calls to Sheriff Gray had left me ill-tempered and distracted—so distracted I’d forgotten the videographer appointment I’d scheduled weeks ago.
My staff had already fled for the evening—anything to avoid my unusual show of temper. It had been a slow day anyway, so when Auntie showed up, I’d had no choice but to summon interest in medieval wedding gowns, Old English calligraphy, and a dozen other prenuptial annoyances.
I gave the clock another glance. Four-thirty-five p.m. and ten seconds.
Forget it.
He’s not calling.
“…and instead of flowers, you might want to carry a white Bible,” Auntie went on. “Or we could do the traditional—” She snapped her fingers. “Hello? Anyone there?”
I drew myself up. “What?”
“Sweetie, time is running short.” She looked exasperated. “Do you realize how much we have to do?”
I closed my eyes. Details. When did commitment get so complicated? You get a license. Buy a dress. Find a priest and say, “I do.” A simple process if there ever was one. Or at least it would be if not for Auntie.
She’d loved and cared for me as her own, been mother and father, friend and confidante. She also had an inner glow that shined through. So to rob her of the joy she derived from this grand event was unthinkable.
Auntie licked her thumb then smoothed back an errant curl along my temple. “You’re about to live every woman’s dream. Why aren’t you excited?”
“Who says I’m not?” I mumbled, folding my arms.
“I do remember how a bride-to-be is supposed to feel.”
I produced a smile, waiting with feigned interest for the coming stroll down memory lane, a stroll Auntie took often.
“I never told you this,” she said, pulling up a chair, “but my wedding was a debacle. When Sears defied his parents and married me anyway, you’d have thought it was Armageddon.”
Considering their scandal paranoia, it was funny how my relatives could find it without fail. The Kennedys had nothing on us. An old-moneyed family, whose wealth and power were substantial, the Bradfords went all the way back to West Virginia’s glorious birth. We were a household name across the state and beyond.
“So what happened?” I asked.
Auntie gazed off into yesteryear. “Granny Mae and Digger couldn’t afford much, but they made do. Of course, Mother and Father Bradford boycotted the wedding, so we went to Saint Ann’s. The sisters made pigs-in-a-blanket and pizza bagels for hors d’oeuvres.”
I gaped in horror.
“Oh yes.” Auntie chuckled. “It was quite the scandal. But the family eventually accepted the match, and I never gave them cause to regret it.” She clasped my hands. “Do you see why this wedding has to be the event of the year? I only want the best for you, sweetie.”
I saw the opening and took it. “And I, you. That’s why I’m hoping the luncheon will do you and Uncle good. You hardly spend any time together.”
“You worry too much.” She patted my hand. “Besides, we’re not talking about my marriage, we’re talking about yours.”
The statement roused a deep-seated concern. “Our cell phones have a better relationship than Darien and me.” I swallowed my unease. “He said things would be tough if he took this case, but I never imagined….”
“Well, that explains it.”
“What?”
“This Butcher Boy distraction of yours,” Auntie said. “There’s been talk, and it’s not the usual rumor mill. Now it’s reached my circle of friends.”
A familiar stirring of something hot and dark burned in the pit of my stomach, but I ignored it as well as Auntie’s derogatory term. “Speaking of Trace,” I said, changing the direction of the conversation, “were you and Uncle ever registered with the Department of Corrections?”
She looked genuinely confused. “Come again?”
“Registered for updates about Trace’s parole status. As my guardians, you were legally entitled to them.”
“No, no, of course not. Why would you ask such a crazy thing?”
“Someone forged a letter to the parole board in my name.”
Her brows climbed north. “What are you implying?”
“It’s a valid question.” I watched her eyes. If I trusted anyone, I trusted Auntie. “Yes or no?”
“No,” she replied without hesitation.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. Given the letter’s content, I was pretty sure my aunt and uncle weren’t involved.
Mead was another story.
Auntie snatched a crocheted hanky from her breast pocket. “I haven’t the foggiest what all this is about, but I don’t like it. There’s been nothing but chaos since that dreadful man got out.” The brightness in her eyes dimmed as she worried the tiny swatch of fabric. “A dear friend of mine said her husband saw you leaving Fontana Exxon a few days ago. And before that, someone else saw you conversing with the Butcher Boy outside Home Depot. Is it true?”
Turning away, I scooted my chair over to the buzzing fax. “I’ve decided I don’t want a cape,” I announced, changing the subject as I waited for the machine to spit the rest of the paper out. “A veil would be much better.”
Auntie came up behind me. “What would Darien say if he knew what you’ve been up to?”
“Nothing. Because I’m not telling him.” I tossed an acidic look back at her. “And neither are you.”
She tugged my chair around. “This is nothing but misguided guilt!”
“Now you’re a psychologist?”
“I’m only trying to understand you.”
I made a face. It wasn’t rocket science. “What’s to understand? I want to know where my memories went.”
“So your solution is to go to the Butcher Boy?”