appeared safe enough. She joined him at the table, offered him one of her doughnuts, but he declined. Elizabeth looked at him, saw the image of his father, and had to turn away. She looked at him a second time but couldn’t hold her glance. Caleb reacted to her chagrin, kept having to confront his own embarrassment about who he was, and found himself looking away as well.
With an averted glance he said, “I almost didn’t come tonight.”
Elizabeth stared at the bridge of his nose, an old trick that made it seem as if she was maintaining eye contact. “I’m glad you did.”
Head lowered, Caleb massaged his temples with his thumbs. “How’d you find me?”
Elizabeth carefully considered what to tell him. “I was going through the Sanderses’ receipts and saw your name.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Have the police connected me with—him—yet?”
Why did he act as if he was more concerned about the police linking him with his father, than with the murder of Teresa Sanders? Elizabeth wasn’t sure how to answer his question. An honest response had its potential dangers, but to lie might stop him from talking.
“No.”
“You haven’t told them?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I wasn’t sure until I saw you.”
“But you plan to tell them?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head and moved his hands. Several times he opened his mouth to speak and each time bit back words until he finally said, “I didn’t do it.”
“What?”
“Murder Mrs. Sanders. I mean, my doing that wouldn’t make any sense, would it?”
“How do you mean it wouldn’t make any sense?”
He again struggled for words before giving up and saying, “I’m not comfortable talking about any of this.”
“It’s not something you can remain silent about.”
“I suppose you have a recorder going.”
“No.”
“But you’re making mental notes for another book, aren’t you?”
“That remains to be seen.”
“I’m just supposed to trust you, is that it? What I say remains between you and me and a million of your readers.”
“You’re presuming much,” she said.
“And so are you. Because of my father, you’ve condemned me.”
“No. That’s not so. But I certainly have questions.”
“You’ve come to the wrong person, then.” “What do you mean?”
“I’ve never had any answers.”
“Tell me about Mrs. Sanders.”
“I wouldn’t have murdered her, especially not that way. I run from trouble. That’s why I don’t want to talk to you or anyone about my father. I’ve spent my life trying to forget my past.”
Especially not that way.
The words echoed in Elizabeth’s head. With her left hand she raised one of the doughnuts to her mouth, while her hidden right hand delved into her designer purse. Her handbag was special not because it had some French name on it but because it had a secret compartment for a gun. She pulled out her Lady Smith & Wesson but kept it out of sight under the table.
“I hope forgetting your past doesn’t include forgetting yesterday morning,” she said.
“No. But I wish it did.”
Elizabeth’s eyes were centered on him. So was her gun, even though he didn’t know it.
Especially not that way.
How did he know about the Shame MO?
“Tell me about it.”
“I got this call a little after eight. A man identified himself as Mr. Sanders. He said his wife was suffering terribly, that an acacia tree was wreaking havoc on her allergies. He was very persuasive about getting me to come over to cut down that tree and reminded me that I’d done work at their house two months before. I promised to make it out there within the hour. He told me Mrs. Sanders would be waiting for me, waiting, he said, with
bated breath.
“Cisco and Bart—that’s my crew—weren’t expecting me that morning anyway. I was supposed to be doing bids on half a dozen jobs. I figured I could cut down the acacia tree quickly, then get to the bids. I arrived at the Sanderses’ house at
With an averted glance he said, “I almost didn’t come tonight.”
Elizabeth stared at the bridge of his nose, an old trick that made it seem as if she was maintaining eye contact. “I’m glad you did.”
Head lowered, Caleb massaged his temples with his thumbs. “How’d you find me?”
Elizabeth carefully considered what to tell him. “I was going through the Sanderses’ receipts and saw your name.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Have the police connected me with—him—yet?”
Why did he act as if he was more concerned about the police linking him with his father, than with the murder of Teresa Sanders? Elizabeth wasn’t sure how to answer his question. An honest response had its potential dangers, but to lie might stop him from talking.
“No.”
“You haven’t told them?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I wasn’t sure until I saw you.”
“But you plan to tell them?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head and moved his hands. Several times he opened his mouth to speak and each time bit back words until he finally said, “I didn’t do it.”
“What?”
“Murder Mrs. Sanders. I mean, my doing that wouldn’t make any sense, would it?”
“How do you mean it wouldn’t make any sense?”
He again struggled for words before giving up and saying, “I’m not comfortable talking about any of this.”
“It’s not something you can remain silent about.”
“I suppose you have a recorder going.”
“No.”
“But you’re making mental notes for another book, aren’t you?”
“That remains to be seen.”
“I’m just supposed to trust you, is that it? What I say remains between you and me and a million of your readers.”
“You’re presuming much,” she said.
“And so are you. Because of my father, you’ve condemned me.”
“No. That’s not so. But I certainly have questions.”
“You’ve come to the wrong person, then.” “What do you mean?”
“I’ve never had any answers.”
“Tell me about Mrs. Sanders.”
“I wouldn’t have murdered her, especially not that way. I run from trouble. That’s why I don’t want to talk to you or anyone about my father. I’ve spent my life trying to forget my past.”
Especially not that way.
The words echoed in Elizabeth’s head. With her left hand she raised one of the doughnuts to her mouth, while her hidden right hand delved into her designer purse. Her handbag was special not because it had some French name on it but because it had a secret compartment for a gun. She pulled out her Lady Smith & Wesson but kept it out of sight under the table.
“I hope forgetting your past doesn’t include forgetting yesterday morning,” she said.
“No. But I wish it did.”
Elizabeth’s eyes were centered on him. So was her gun, even though he didn’t know it.
Especially not that way.
How did he know about the Shame MO?
“Tell me about it.”
“I got this call a little after eight. A man identified himself as Mr. Sanders. He said his wife was suffering terribly, that an acacia tree was wreaking havoc on her allergies. He was very persuasive about getting me to come over to cut down that tree and reminded me that I’d done work at their house two months before. I promised to make it out there within the hour. He told me Mrs. Sanders would be waiting for me, waiting, he said, with
bated breath.
“Cisco and Bart—that’s my crew—weren’t expecting me that morning anyway. I was supposed to be doing bids on half a dozen jobs. I figured I could cut down the acacia tree quickly, then get to the bids. I arrived at the Sanderses’ house at
Similar Books
