Secrets in a Small Town (11 page)

“I’m not going to let you carry or push me,” Gretchen said, determined even though her bruises stood out in the sunlight. Her rounded belly protruded stubbornly in spite of her ordeal. She picked her way toward the door, waving him away. “Stop hovering, Owen, before I go insane. I’ll be fine. Just go open the door for me.”

“Right.” Owen rushed to do as instructed. He was way out of his element. He’d never had much experience with caregiving though he’d spent enough time smoothing over the rough spots his brothers had often left behind with their high-spirited ways. The irony that Thomas had gone into law enforcement within the FBI never failed to amuse him. He held the door open for Gretchen and escorted her to the bedroom that would be hers and Quinn’s for the time being.

He wasn’t lying when he’d told her it wasn’t fancy. He’d always imagined that Mama Jo would spruce it up when she visited but he hadn’t been able to persuade her to come to California in all the years since he’d packed up and moved from Bridgeport, West Virginia. The sparse room seemed a mirror to his life, he thought irritably. Of course, he’d imagined things a lot differently at one time. He gestured toward the closet, eager to put his mind back on task. “Make yourself at home. I have extra blankets in the closet and don’t hesitate to ask if you need something.”

Gretchen absently rubbed her belly, an echo of sadness in the slow, soothing action, and a memory long buried rose to the surface.

A woman he didn’t know—wouldn’t dare talk to—and his father.

It’d been summer and they’d left the compound to pick up supplies, but they’d taken a detour to a place he hadn’t recognized. His father had instructed him to remain in the old Ford truck as he went to the door of the small cottage.

She came to the door wearing a cream gauzy sundress that dusted her bare knees. Her rounded shoulders matched the subtle rounding of her belly. Her hands caressed the bump even as she and his father began to argue. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but his father seemed very frustrated. Tears were streaming down her face. She reached up to touch his father on his cheek, the motion loving yet urgent, and Owen’s eyes widened in shock. Then his father lightly touched her stomach. Owen’s confusion warred with revulsion.

The woman was black.

And his father was touching her with kindness…even desperate longing. No, this was wrong, he thought. His father would explain.

But Ty hadn’t explained. When Owen had questioned him, almost demanding an answer, his father hadn’t been able to say much more than, “Not everything is as it seems, so just mind your own business and keep it to yourself, son.”

Owen hadn’t mentioned it again. Not that he’d had the chance.

Two days later, the woman was dead and a week later, so was his father.

“You okay, Owen?” Gretchen queried now, catching a remnant of that disturbing memory in his gaze. She reached out to him, worried. “You look like you just saw a ghost or something. You’re white as a sheet.”

He chuckled at her observation, waving off her concern. “You don’t need to be worrying about me. You just focus on healing. I’m fine. I promise,” he assured her when she refused to be mollified. He loved that about Gretchen—she was always considering others before herself. Except, he wished she’d put herself first before that jackass roughed her up. Maybe if she’d done that, she might’ve walked before it was too late.

“Should I make something for dinner tonight?” she asked, and he immediately balked.

“Woman, what part of
rest
don’t you understand?” he asked, shaking his head when she frowned and began to protest.

“I have to do something to earn our keep here,” Gretchen said, resolute determination in her face. “I’m no freeloader.”

“No, you’re pregnant and injured. That constitutes needing a little pampering. I’ll pick something up on my way home each night. No cooking. Besides, I don’t even know if I have much more than one pot and a skillet. Not sure you could make much of a meal with that.”

That seemed to make some sense to her and she backed down, but Owen had a feeling it was only a temporary concession on her part. Gretchen had a mind of her own when it came to certain things. He suppressed a sigh and gestured. “Do you need anything else? I have to head back to town for a few things.”

“We’re good. Thanks again, Owen,” she said, the sincerity in her voice hard to miss. He was pleased to help but he wasn’t accustomed to having two extra people, let alone those of the female persuasion, running around in his space. He’d deal but it would take some getting used to. No walking around naked he supposed. He chuckled at the idea of telling Piper that she wasn’t the only one who enjoyed walking around in the buff when no one was around.

There was something to be said for the caress of a cool breeze on the backside, he mused with a smile of private humor.

When he’d been a timber faller back in his early twenties he’d often come home covered in sawdust from the day’s work and instead of tracking all that mess into the house to clean later, he’d just shuck his clothes at the door and walk in naked as a jaybird. Usually he’d been so bone-tired from a day of falling trees that he’d tumbled, exhausted, to the couch. He’d often wake around seven in the evening to shove some food down his gullet, shower and go back to bed to start all over again the next day at the crack of dawn. He missed a lot of things about just being an employee but he didn’t miss the back-breaking work of being a faller. If he’d continued in that profession, he’d be listening to a surgeon tell him he was due for a hip and knee replacement at the ripe age of thirty-six.

He climbed into his truck with one last glance toward the house, feeling odd to leave the girls alone, but he had to get supplies if people were going to be staying for any length of time. At the present time, he barely had enough to support one person, let alone three. Hell, he didn’t even know if he had a full roll of toilet paper.

Piper surmised it was written by a woman, someone who was in love.

“Ohh, my favorite,” she murmured, grinning. “Let’s see what we have here…”

But her grin faded as she continued to read. Soon it became clear this was not a love story. It was a tragedy.

It was difficult to picture the seething racial hatred that the Aryan Coalition supported flourishing in a place as easygoing in nature as Dayton. Yet, it had. In fact, there were people arrested that day who were grocers, postal workers, day-care providers…everyday people.

And of course, there was Ty Garrett. Carpenter by day, and white supremist leader by night. She tucked the journal against her side and rose from the floor. She wondered if her parents knew who the journal might belong to. Her parents would likely chastise her for not dropping the research into Red Meadows like they’d suggested. Her normally placid father had actually spoken sharply to her the other day over her research. She bit her lip and her gaze went to the journal in her hand. No, she supposed she needn’t mention the journal just yet. She wanted to see what she could find on her own first.

She checked her watch. There was still time to get to the library and check out the archives before she was scheduled to meet Owen at his place. Humming to herself, she grabbed her purse and stuffed the journal inside. Hopefully, she could find something that might tie the diary to someone in town she could identify. Maybe she could even return it to whoever this M. LaRoche was…it was a happy thought that made her smile. Imagine this mystery person’s surprise to have their long-lost journal returned. Perhaps, if she found the owner, she could ask why the entries stopped so abruptly. Her curiosity had been well and truly piqued. “I do love a puzzle,” she murmured as she locked up her house. Hopefully, if she managed to find M. LaRoche, she could get her to share her experiences with the purists. It might shed some additional light on what actually happened that fateful day at Red Meadows.

A young, black woman was found dead in her home, the victim of an apparent botched robbery. Police found the home trashed and the woman, Mimi LaRoche, dead from a single gunshot to the head. She’d been six months pregnant.

M. LaRoche. Piper was willing to bet her eyeteeth the
M
stood for
Mimi.

She was carrying the diary of a dead woman in her purse. She read on, noting the woman, Mimi, had been a student at San Jose City College, majoring in fine arts.

“Are you all right, dear?” the librarian asked, noting her change in mood.

“Do you remember the murder of a young woman who was six months pregnant right before the raid at Red Meadows?” she asked, hoping the librarian, who was a fossil in the town of Dayton, might remember something that wasn’t put in the newspapers.

Mrs. Huffle, her facial features going slack as she searched her memory, suddenly came upon something and the recollection was enough to pull a sad frown. “Oh, dear, that was a sad, sad day. Nice girl. She used to come in to do her studying. She was going to be a painter or something. Something artsy, I remember that. They never found who did it. Right shame, I tell you.”

“The police never had any leads?”

“Oh, well, I don’t know about that. Nothing they were going to follow up on. Not during those times anyway.”

Piper recalled the fearful passages in the journal and asked, “Was it because of the Aryan Coalition?”

At the mention of the racist cult, Mrs. Huffle’s softly wrinkled face pinched in open disgust. “Oh, those people were for rot. Screws loose, all of them. Going on about the ‘pure race.’ Pure poppycock, if you ask me. I, for one, was relieved when the FBI came in and cleaned house. It was well overdue. They were ruining this town.”

“Do you remember if Mimi LaRoche was seeing someone? I mean, she was pregnant. She didn’t get that way on her own.”

Mrs. Huffle shook her head. “I never saw her with no one. I just assumed she might’ve had a friend at the college. Such a pretty girl, though. She had those Cajun looks, you know with that rich brown skin and pale green eyes? She was a looker, for sure. Sad business.” Mrs. Huffle sighed, then peered at Piper. “Why all the questions all of a sudden about this stuff?”

“Just curious,” she answered, not ready to share her true intentions with anyone, not even sweet Mrs. Huffle. “I was doing research into something else and came across the news clipping.”

Satisfied with her answer, Mrs. Huffle nodded with a twinkle. “You’ve always been a curious cat. Probably why you make such an ace reporter. I do love reading your work, though.”

“Thank you. That’s nice to hear.” She accepted the compliment and made her way to the door until one more question popped in her head. “Mrs. Huffle…is there anyone who still lives here, aside from William Dearborn, who knew anything about the Red Meadows incident?”

Mrs. Huffle cocked her head, a slightly puzzled expression on her face as she answered, “Why yes, dear…you ought to know the answer to that question. Your parents, of course. They were there when it all happened.”