Shadow Notes Laurel Peterson (best reads TXT) 📖

but my communication was erratic, and that was a kind word for it.

I shut and locked the front door. It had started to snow and for a moment, I sat in the Land Rover and watched the flakes collect on the drive. Had the dreams been warning of Mother’s arrest? Why would someone kill Hugh? At least I knew now why I’d come home. I shoved the car in gear.

Ten minutes later, I pulled up in front of a sweet little house by the water. In the summer, the herb garden puffed over the walk and made the air smell like a perfumed bath. Today, the snow-dusted path led to the porch with its purple front door, around which the house gleamed pale yellow like some grandmother’s fairytale home. They’d spent a lot of time fixing it up before Richard was diagnosed with HIV two years ago, finding pleasure in working on it together.

Now, Paul’s recent messages communicated an ongoing tension, a waiting for bad news that ate up any excess energy.

Paul opened the door. He looked tired, his hair ruffled upright and his shoulders stiff, but his eyes brightened when he saw me. “Oh good! Just what we need to cheer us up.” He pulled me into the house, calling to Richard, who loped through the kitchen door into the living room that stretched across the front of the cottage.

“Hey lady!” He engulfed me in a bear hug, and I relaxed. Richard was six-foot-three and about two-hundred and fifty pounds. He reminded me of a cat who was all muscle and swagger until he got into your lap, and then he was nothing but purr. Paul, in contrast, was lithe and slender and topped with brush-cut dark hair.

“You sure this is a good time? You guys look like you just got in from a night of partying.”

Richard was still in his robe and Paul’s eyes were bloodshot; Paul clutched a mug of coffee.

Paul shook his head. “We were hashing over the week.” He gestured toward the kitchen. Grateful, I draped my coat over a maroon leather recliner, Paul’s one concession to Richard’s tastes in the room. The rest was decorated with heavy brocades in dark green and navy and lightened with photographs of the sea Paul had taken on their annual trip to Bermuda.

In the kitchen, a cheery haven of yellow, green, and ruffled plaid seat cushions, a plate of bagels with cream cheese and lox sat in the middle of the table. Richard grabbed another plate from the cupboard and shoved cream and sugar in my direction, while Paul poured coffee.

“What’s up?” I asked.

They looked at each other. Paul said, “Richard’s HIV has been outed at work, and everyone freaked.”

“I thought that stupid behavior left with the eighties.”

Richard tipped his head in defeat. “Seems not.”

I reached for his hand. “What are you going to do?”

“Nothing. They can’t fire me, and no one is overtly rude, just nervous. They don’t want to talk to me; they don’t want to work with me. They even want to meet in the conference room instead of in my office, like I’ve contaminated the space I work in. I now know why shunning was so effective.”

“Oh, Richard…”

“They’re scared and ignorant.” He shrugged.

“Time to find another job?”

“I like the one I’ve got. Anyway, we can’t do without my income.”

Richard was the VP of a small technology firm in New York City. Paul owned his own herbal shop and was a healer and therapist. Briefly, I wondered what Hugh had thought of Paul’s kind of therapy.

Paul must have seen the shadow cross my face. “What’s the matter, Clara? You didn’t come to hear our problems.”

“You make it seem like I don’t care.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

He stood to fetch the coffee pot. I ran my finger around the lip of the mug.

“Hugh Woodward was murdered last night, and Mother has been arrested for the murder. On top of that, she’s acting weird.”

Richard said, “Murdered? How?”

Paul said, “Honey, your mother’s never not been weird.”

“Someone beat him to death with a poker—and she’s weirder than normal.”

“How is that possible?” asked Richard.

“Stop,” said Paul.

Richard shrugged, grinning.

“True confessions first: last night I dragged Hugh up to my bedroom between the dessert and the after-dinner drinks.”

Richard leaned back and guffawed. “Home for less than a week, and she’s already seduced Mama’s therapist. Was this for fun or profit?”

“Oh god. That’s what Mother thinks too. But I didn’t. It was the only place I could think of that was truly private. You know what those parties are like. I’d been trapped by the Christmas tree with Hetty Gardner for a half hour before dinner. Not even a second martini could help me through that tedium.”

“So what did you do if you didn’t, you know….?” Paul put the coffee pot back and sat down again. I rolled my eyes at him.

“I asked if he knew anything about Mother’s troubles. He waxed rhapsodic about his professional ethics and how much he loved Mother and would never, ever hurt her.”

“Never ever?” This from Richard.

“You’re not helping,” said Paul.

“When the police came today, Mother told them she was with Hugh last night. But unless she slipped out after I went to sleep, she’s lying.”

“How do you know?” Paul asked. “You haven’t talked to her for fifteen years. They could have been involved.”

“I—” He was right. I knew hardly anything about Mother’s life and understood even less. “My god. Do you think she did it?”

Richard laughed drily. “You mean, did she assume that her daughter had slept with her lover and killed him in a jealous rage?”

I blew out a breath. “You’re right. My mother doesn’t have jealous rages.”

“Betcha didn’t think she had lovers either.” Paul draped some lox over half of his bagel and took a bite. “Why would you think something was wrong with your mother?

I pinched a corner off a bagel and rubbed it into crumbs on my plate. “My dreams.”

“You’re having dreams again?” Paul put down his food,