Shadow Notes Laurel Peterson (best reads TXT) 📖

Mary Ellen seethed as I spoke, looking at Mother as if I were only the mouthpiece for her ideas. “It’s not Hetty’s funeral you should be worried about,” she spat.

I followed her to the door and watched her stalk to her car, slam the door and spin angrily around the drive on her way out.

In the kitchen, Mother was still seated at the table, her hands clenched into fists, her teeth still bared. “Is she gone?” One of the fists held a small paring knife. Where had she gotten that?

I nodded and shoved my hands in the pockets of my jeans to keep them from shaking. Then I had to sit down because I couldn’t breathe and my thighs felt funny, as if they were made of Spritz cookie dough. My head still pounded.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I haven’t been okay for thirty-five years,” she said.

“Mother, you need to put the knife down.” She looked at me as if I had suddenly registered in her field of vision. “I saw her get in her car and drive out.”

“Her energy is still here.”

“It will dissipate.”

“Only when she is gone.”

“She is gone, I told you—”

“I mean forever. We have to get rid of them forever.”

“Mother. Put the knife down.”

She hadn’t stopped staring at me. I was starting to feel like a bug under a glass cloche in the middle of a summer picnic. “For the last time,” she said, “I didn’t kill Hugh.”

“I didn’t—”

She wouldn’t let me get my protest out. “Andrew won’t stop until he has all the power he can possibly get, and that includes power over individuals and public power in office and the power that wealth confers.” She put the knife on the table gently, as if it were a tender living thing. “That list you have? I can show connections; Kyle will have to investigate. Even if I can’t prove them all, the scandal may be enough to stop that bastard’s campaign.”

“And if not?”

“I can’t think about that.”

“Should we tell the chief about Mary Ellen’s death threats?”

“He’ll be at the funeral. We’ll tell him then.” She looked up, her eyes fierce and dark. “I will smear Andrew and the Winters name like blood across the tabloids.” She stood. “I’m going up to get ready.” She left the kitchen and I heard her steps tapping across the hall’s wood floor.

I put the knife carefully away in the drawer.

Chapter 25

Mother and I hurried from the car toward the service. The church, a gray stone Episcopal crowning Main Street, rose stark and forbidding from the snow at its base. Low clouds scudded just above its steeple and threatened more snow. Barely a minute before Hetty’s service began, we slipped into the back row. From there, I could unobtrusively study the attendees. Most important, where was the chief, and who was Hetty’s boyfriend? I started methodically scanning, row by row, wondering how I would know the boyfriend when I saw him.

The service began with a liturgical procession, the priest and choir filing down the aisle, while burning incense drifted up and carried, supposedly, the congregation’s prayers to God. I wondered how many in the room believed that, and how many were here for show. American politicians had to say they believed to get elected; Winters would say whatever it took, but now I knew who he truly was.

After a hymn and some Biblical readings, the priest, solemn in his vestments and black stole, reminded us how central Hetty had been to town life over the past twenty years and asked if anyone wanted to speak of her contributions. A kind looking, middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper-hair talked about Hetty’s farm and meticulous care of her animals. The librarian praised her volunteer work with the kids on a community garden project. A brilliant red-head told us Hetty had been a good counselor, helping him after his wife passed away. The stories reinforced how little attention I’d paid her.

Hetty and I should have been friends. We’d had fathers die, we had ­stepfathers, our mothers were close friends, we both had an intuitive gift. Yet we’d never clicked. Why? What attracts us to one person and makes another unattractive? Look at Winters and his little bevy of women. How could they be drawn to a man who—to me—was so decidedly evil?

My attention was pulled back to the service, as Winters, unable to pass up a public gathering, lauded Hetty’s work on his campaign in a brief and self-serving statement of mourning, keeping us all apprised that he was still running for office and still needed our support. He sat down, third row, right side, Mary Ellen and Andrew’s wife Jennifer sandwiching him: Wonder Bread with bologna in the middle. If he was my father, who did that make me?

Even though half the town had come, and many spoke warmly of her, Hetty didn’t seem to have any friends. No one spoke of closeness, of a confidant who would be missed. She’d been an odd duck, hard to get to know, prickly enough to keep people at a distance. How had she managed to have an affair—and with whom? I surreptitiously observed the faces around me again, looking for men I recognized from the campaign, as well as obsessively checking every few minutes that the Winters remained together and seated. Mary Ellen made me want to sit with my back to a wall.

By the time we left, both the sky and Mother had cracked into sullen gloom. I hadn’t seen the chief anywhere, although surely he’d attended. Mother, in charge of arranging the reception, refused to let me spend time after the service searching for him, snapping that she would call him later. I was a little relieved to be able to put off our revelations.

Mother had gotten a caterer and wait staff for the funeral luncheon, and rented everything else—tables and chairs, plates, glasses, linens. I thought Ernie and Loretta’s house might pop like a