Shadow Notes Laurel Peterson (best reads TXT) 📖

waiter cleared the calamari plate and deposited huge steaks nearly covered in piles of crisp French fries. He added small pots of ketchup and mustard to the collection of bottles and glasses on the table, and drifted away.

“Are there any…rumors about Mary Ellen’s mental health? I’m telling you, Bailey, she was all-over-the-place-crazy today.” Unlike me. “Between slurs against Mother, freak-outs about the campaign, and threats—a psychiatrist would have a field day. Maybe Hugh was trying to have her committed and she killed him to prevent it because she had to run her brother’s election campaign.”

Bailey laughed, full-throated and without reservation, the first time I’d heard it from her in a long time. It was a beautiful sound, and I smiled, glad I’d caused it. She said, “Your mother would know, wouldn’t she? Seems like she could answer almost all of your questions.”

I just shook my head and dunked a fry into the ketchup. Bailey understood. She sawed at her steak, then said, “I think we should tell Hetty about Ethan Olsen.”

“Whatever for?” Talk about a change of subject.

“She needs to know we protected her all those years ago.”

“Would you want to know twenty years later that you’d narrowly missed being raped? That people had to make fun of you to get you to back off? I would only feel more humiliated.”

“I want her to know we’re on her side.”

“Are we? Do we need to be?”

“She doesn’t have anyone.”

“She has all her fluffy little lambs—until she makes them into lamb chops.”

“Honestly, Clara. You could have a little compassion.”

I rolled my eyes. “Okay, officially putting on my ‘compassionate self.’ I still don’t get it. She has family and she must have friends. She has her clients. And apparently, she has a little stalking business on the side. She might even be dabbling in murder.”

“She’s got Ernie and Loretta, but Ernie’s not even her real father. Her real father died, years ago, like yours. She spun loose after that, remember? She’s at every function in town, but that’s just Hetty. She shows up whether people want her to or not, so they figure it’s better to invite her. You know how people here think: We might have a use for that woman someday—like she’s an old door hinge you store in the garage, just in case. You and I don’t have to become her best friends, but we should make peace. And anyway, if you make nice, she might help you.”

Bailey seemed determined to hook me into this town, but I didn’t need to make peace with everyone here. “It hasn’t exactly been gnawing at my conscience, and you’ve never had these scruples before. If you feel bad, apologize, but leave me out of it.”

It wasn’t me at my best. Bailey had a point, but I was already overwhelmed, never mind making up to a woman who had made her dislike of me apparent for longer than I could remember.

I would deal with it later, after the police arrested someone for Hugh’s murder and I stopped having dreams about blood, and daylight hallucinations of my father. The last step before a trip to the loony bin.

Bailey slapped her knife onto the edge of the plate. “Those fifteen years might have given you a respite from dealing with all this stuff, but it never goes away. Eventually, even when you live your life as if you have no past, your past is underneath it all, influencing what you do.”

“You think I’ve had a free ride all these years, while you slogged it out with the same old stuff and people we dealt with in high school?”

She sat back, twisting the cloth napkin in her fingers. “I have a past, too—some of it shared with you—and even if you don’t feel guilty, I do, and I’d like to make amends. I have a lot invested in this town, and I don’t want lingering negative vibes from anyone, if I can change them. I want to be central to this town’s well-being and I can’t be if I’m not promoting the well-being of one of its members.”

I squinted at her. “That sounds suspiciously like a campaign speech.”

She bit her lip, then shrugged. “So? Will you?”

“Clara!” Like the sudden explosion of a puffball mushroom, Hetty appeared at our table. Dressed in a red flannel shirt and jeans with heavy work boots and a long down coat, she looked like a dissolute Mrs. Claus. “I should report you for trespassing!”

“Hetty, honey, you’re shouting,” said Bailey. “Sit down a moment.” She patted the seat next to her. The entire dining room had turned to stare.

“Yes, sit down. We wanted to talk to you.”

She gave me a doubtful look, but slid in next to Bailey, who wrinkled her nose slightly. A moment later, sheep barn wafted at me. I pushed my plate away.

“You had no right,” Hetty reiterated, almost pouting. “I’ve spent all afternoon with the police.”

“Why were you photographing me, Hetty? Or Mary Ellen or Pete Samuels? I’m sure the police were particularly interested in the photographs of Hugh.”

Hetty stared at me, furious, her hands crushing a fuzzy red beret. “I…I…took those for a friend.”

“What friend?”

She folded her arms, the beret sticking out from under her arm like a tuft of hair. “I can take pictures of anyone I want to. Look at all those paparazzi.”

“That’s their profession, Hetty. This looks like stalking.”

“I’m not a stalker!” Indignant now, like she’d never thought of it before.

“Of course you’re not,” Bailey patted her arm, perky smile glued in place. “So…there’s something else we wanted to discuss with you. Clara has remembered the incident you mentioned.”

I shot her a dagger look. I didn’t want to talk about Ethan. I needed to find out about those photographs. And how come it was suddenly just me who was apologizing? “Actually, both Bailey and I feel badly. You’re upset about Ethan Olsen, right?”

Hetty stared at me, stone-faced, like a Greek column. Okay, so I did remember what it was like to be humiliated. Who could