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Authors: Mallory Kane
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hide it or keep the information a secret from him or from her family. It would have been a topic of lively conversation and possibly heated arguments, at least for a short while until something else caught their imagination.
But he could not think of another thing that could be in the letter. Unless it was just a Dear Cara Lynn, I wanted you to have this... note. Or possibly a letter Lili had written to her best friend Claire. Claire, please keep these safe for me. One day, perhaps when she marries, I’d love for the journals and the tiara to go to the youngest, Cara Lynn. She reminds me so much of myself when I was that age. Maybe she’ll read my journals and decide she wants to write. Maybe she’ll use the tiara to give herself a nest egg, so she won’t be trapped in a loveless marriage....
Jack stopped his thoughts. He was drifting off into daydreams—or daymares. Why in the world would he think that Cara Lynn’s grandmother had feared—or prophesized—that her youngest granddaughter might be trapped in a marriage without love? That was just his own guilt coming out.
Having interrupted his train of thought, Jack forced himself to continue thinking rationally instead of fantasizing. He had no business trying to find the letter. There was probably less than a one percent chance that it had anything at all to do with his grandfather.
He sat down at the kitchen table and unlocked his briefcase. He wanted to review the police report from the first officer on the scene after Con Delancey was shot.
He’d hired a private investigator a few weeks ago, hoping to get his hands on any unreleased police records regarding Armand Broussard. Jack was certain that there were forms or reports he hadn’t thought or known to ask for. It had been over a week since he’d talked to the P.I. and he was anxious to hear from him.
He dug through the letters and found the stack he was looking for. As he pulled the letters out, his eye was caught by the baggie that held the yellowed scrap of envelope. He studied it for a moment, then glanced toward the pantry door. Cara Lynn had acted downright guilty when she’d come out of the pantry with the bottles in her hands.
She had hidden the letter somewhere in there. Suddenly, it didn’t matter to him that there was a 99 percent chance that the letter was of no interest to him—or to anyone except Cara Lynn. There was always that 1 percent. What if there was something—even if it was one sentence or one phrase—that might give him a clue to help clear his grandfather’s name?
He glanced at his watch. He needed to get to the police station and sign his statement, but right now he was alone in the house and was going to be alone all day. He might not have a better chance to search for the letter for a long time.
He went into the pantry and eyed the shelves filled with cans, canisters, boxes and bags of food. Everything from staples like flour and sugar and cornmeal to gourmet items like escargot, Major Grey’s chutney, fancy crackers and aged balsamic vinegar. He glanced through the shelves, thinking if she’d been clever enough to hide a thin envelope amongst all the food, it would take him a lot longer than an hour or so to find it.
So figuring it would be faster to eliminate obvious hiding places first, he started investigating the room. A loose floor board or baseboard or a cubby hole cut into the wall would make a great hiding place. At that instant, his toe hit something that rattled loosely. He bent down and looked underneath the bottom shelf. He had to move a case of bottled water from which three were missing, but when he did, he hit pay dirt. A piece of baseboard toppled over.
He bent down and looked at the hole. He could see the corner of a yellowed envelope. His pulse raced. There it was . Whether it might be of any help to him, he had no idea. But at least he’d know.
He slid the envelope out carefully and looked at it. On the front were the words for Cara Lynn,
But he could not think of another thing that could be in the letter. Unless it was just a Dear Cara Lynn, I wanted you to have this... note. Or possibly a letter Lili had written to her best friend Claire. Claire, please keep these safe for me. One day, perhaps when she marries, I’d love for the journals and the tiara to go to the youngest, Cara Lynn. She reminds me so much of myself when I was that age. Maybe she’ll read my journals and decide she wants to write. Maybe she’ll use the tiara to give herself a nest egg, so she won’t be trapped in a loveless marriage....
Jack stopped his thoughts. He was drifting off into daydreams—or daymares. Why in the world would he think that Cara Lynn’s grandmother had feared—or prophesized—that her youngest granddaughter might be trapped in a marriage without love? That was just his own guilt coming out.
Having interrupted his train of thought, Jack forced himself to continue thinking rationally instead of fantasizing. He had no business trying to find the letter. There was probably less than a one percent chance that it had anything at all to do with his grandfather.
He sat down at the kitchen table and unlocked his briefcase. He wanted to review the police report from the first officer on the scene after Con Delancey was shot.
He’d hired a private investigator a few weeks ago, hoping to get his hands on any unreleased police records regarding Armand Broussard. Jack was certain that there were forms or reports he hadn’t thought or known to ask for. It had been over a week since he’d talked to the P.I. and he was anxious to hear from him.
He dug through the letters and found the stack he was looking for. As he pulled the letters out, his eye was caught by the baggie that held the yellowed scrap of envelope. He studied it for a moment, then glanced toward the pantry door. Cara Lynn had acted downright guilty when she’d come out of the pantry with the bottles in her hands.
She had hidden the letter somewhere in there. Suddenly, it didn’t matter to him that there was a 99 percent chance that the letter was of no interest to him—or to anyone except Cara Lynn. There was always that 1 percent. What if there was something—even if it was one sentence or one phrase—that might give him a clue to help clear his grandfather’s name?
He glanced at his watch. He needed to get to the police station and sign his statement, but right now he was alone in the house and was going to be alone all day. He might not have a better chance to search for the letter for a long time.
He went into the pantry and eyed the shelves filled with cans, canisters, boxes and bags of food. Everything from staples like flour and sugar and cornmeal to gourmet items like escargot, Major Grey’s chutney, fancy crackers and aged balsamic vinegar. He glanced through the shelves, thinking if she’d been clever enough to hide a thin envelope amongst all the food, it would take him a lot longer than an hour or so to find it.
So figuring it would be faster to eliminate obvious hiding places first, he started investigating the room. A loose floor board or baseboard or a cubby hole cut into the wall would make a great hiding place. At that instant, his toe hit something that rattled loosely. He bent down and looked underneath the bottom shelf. He had to move a case of bottled water from which three were missing, but when he did, he hit pay dirt. A piece of baseboard toppled over.
He bent down and looked at the hole. He could see the corner of a yellowed envelope. His pulse raced. There it was . Whether it might be of any help to him, he had no idea. But at least he’d know.
He slid the envelope out carefully and looked at it. On the front were the words for Cara Lynn,
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