Shadows of the Past (Logan Point Book #1): A Novel (8 page)

Livy’s job was in jeopardy? That put a different slant on things. Taylor picked up a small yellow pad from Livy’s desk. “Okay, fill me in,
O-livia
.”

Livy crossed her arms. “Don’t call me that. Mac’s the senior partner, and I can’t stop him, but you, I can.”

Taylor palmed her hands up in mock defense. “Like you did Susie?”

Livy ignored her and picked up her pad. “Let me give you an
overview of the case, then I’ll call Archives and get you set up for searching their records for those files.” She looked at her notes. “Victim is Albert Duncan Ross, a heroin junkie. He had a Movies 2 Go receipt but no movie. It’s a sleazy video store. Probably one of those where you watch the video in a tiny cubicle.” Livy looked up. “The manager wasn’t too helpful but did admit that Ross and an employee of his, Scott Sinclair, had words last night. Sinclair threatened Ross after the manager fired—”

“Wait, are you saying Scott Sinclair worked there?”

Livy nodded. “Manager said he’d been there a little over a week.”

Taylor rubbed her forehead. “Scott Sinclair lives on a trust fund. Why would he be working at a place like that? Or working at all?”

“You’re kidding. How do you know that?”

“His brother, Nick Sinclair. You need to talk to him.” Taylor pulled her cell from her purse and scrolled down to Nick’s name and jotted his number on a sticky note. “Although I doubt he’ll be very helpful. He’s also looking for Scott and thinks his brother is being framed for stalking me.”

Livy stuck the note on the folder. “When did you last talk to the brother?”

“Today, on the flight from Seattle. We sat together. You may have heard of him—he’s from here and a writer. In fact . . .” Taylor reached into her bag and pulled out
Dead Men Don’t Lie.
She checked to make sure she had Livy’s copy. “I have this for you.”

Her friend’s eyes widened. “Nicholas Sinclair? I love his books.”

Taylor did everything she could to keep from groaning. Had everyone but her read his novels? “I figured as much. He autographed it.”

Livy grabbed the book. “And you have his cell number? Wow, I’m impressed.”

“Well, don’t be. He’s not too happy that I want to see his brother arrested, or at the very least, questioned closely. Any leads on where Scott might be?”

Livy shook her head. “He didn’t have any friends at the store,
and employment records are nonexistent. Evidently Movies 2 Go paid him daily, in cash. Manager still owes him for yesterday, and I told him to call me if Scott showed up for his money.”

“How did he get the job?”

“Good question. I’ll check with the manager on that.”

Taylor nodded. “What happened between Scott and the victim?”

Livy glanced at her notepad again. “According to the manager, they got into an argument, a little shoving went on, then he fired Scott.” She closed the pad. “Scott blew up and left the video store muttering about it being Ross’s fault. That was around eleven-thirty. The body was found about a mile from the store, and the medical examiner put the time of death around midnight, which fits the time frame for Scott.”

“How was he killed?”

“Garroted.”

“Eww.” Taylor’s lip curled. “Find any prints?”

“Nope. Not even smudges.”

Taylor’s cell phone rang the special ringtone she’d programmed for her mom.

“‘It’s your mother calling and you better pick up’?” Livy shook her head. “Where did you get that ringtone?”

“Somewhere on the internet.” Taylor punched the accept button. “Hello, Mom.”

“Where are you?”

Taylor held the phone away from her ear. Her mom’s voice carried loud enough for Livy to hear. She found the button to turn the volume down. “I’m in Memphis.”

Livy made a
tsking
sound and leaned forward, whispering, “Aren’t you going to tell her you stopped to see me first?”

Taylor made a face and waved her off.

“Good.” Her mom’s voice was even louder.

She fumbled with the button again and moved a few feet away.

“Um, did Chase call today and tell you that Jonathan sent him out of town overnight?”

“No.” That meant she would have to beard the lion in his den alone tonight. “When will he be home?”

“Tomorrow. Will you be here in the next hour?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll call you when I get out of Memphis traffic.”

“Be careful.”

Taylor stared at the phone. Her mom ended almost every call that way. “I guess you heard?”

Livy laughed. “You better hit the road.”

“Not before looking for my father’s records.”

Livy’s eyes widened as she gaped at her. “Today?”

“Why not?”

Her friend closed her mouth. “First of all, records that old aren’t digitalized. You’ll have to find where they’re warehoused, then comb through miles of records. You’re looking at spending at least a day or two in the archives.”

Her shoulder slumped. No wonder Livy hadn’t looked for them. She sighed, calculating exactly when she could get a whole day away from her family. “I’ll have to do my searching piecemeal starting tomorrow when you get the file on your murder victim compiled—I’ll find an excuse to come to Memphis.” She stood. “Who knows, maybe I’ll get lucky and find them right away.”

They walked to the elevator together, and Taylor punched the down button.

“Thanks again for doing a profile on Ross,” Livy said and jabbed the elevator button in quick succession.

“You know that won’t make it come any faster.”

Livy’s grin punched dimples in her cheeks. “I’ve missed you! Visiting you out in Washington just isn’t the same as having you here.”

“Don’t start on me—Mom’s going to be bad enough.”

Livy flipped her a wicked grin. “Good luck with that.”

N
ick read the email from his editor on his phone, then with a sigh clicked out of the account. More revisions. He’d do them tonight.

He retracted the top on the Mustang and hit the interstate. A few miles later, the wind had whipped the early June heat out of the car. He merged into the right lane on I-240, and at the Poplar exit, Nick took the 72 West exit. Even after helping Taylor rent a car, he’d beaten the afternoon traffic.

Taylor. She’d wanted a red convertible like his, something else they had in common. But she’d settled for the Rav4, saying if she couldn’t have flash, she could at least have dash.

He’d never forget the expression on her face when he offered to exchange his seat in first class with her seatmate, but again she’d recovered nicely.

The move had surprised even him. If he’d had time to think it through . . . would he do it again? His heart rate quickened.
Admit it.
Taylor Martin was the first woman who’d sparked his interest since Angie.

He’d met interesting women since his wife’s death, beautiful women, but none like Taylor. Was it because she didn’t seem aware of her looks? Or was it the way she listened to him? Or was it because she seemed so vulnerable? Sometimes her blue eyes filled
with an emotion he couldn’t identify, one that reminded him of the injured animals Scott had brought Nick to “fix.” Someone had inflicted a deep wound in Taylor’s heart.

Stop. She wants to put Scott in jail.

Maybe he needed to write that on the palm of his hand where he could see it.

The problem of the poem burned in his gut. He’d tell Taylor as soon as he found Scott and got answers from him. For now he put the issue on hold. His cell rang as he turned the red Mustang into his drive. He didn’t recognize the number. “Sinclair.”

“Mr. Sinclair, this is Olivia Reynolds. I’m a detective with the MPD homicide division. Taylor Martin gave me your number, and I would like to ask you a few questions about your brother, Scott. Do you have a minute to talk?”

“A minute is about all I have.” So that’s where Taylor had been in such a hurry to get to—the Memphis Police Department. And to think he’d helped her rent the car to get there. Now he was glad he hadn’t mentioned where the poem came from. The detective would probably have an all-points-bulletin out for Scott if he had. Maybe him too. “If you think I know where Scott is, you’re wrong.”

“Would you tell me if you knew?”

“Why are you looking for him? Because of Taylor?”

“No. Scott is a person of interest in a homicide that occurred late last night.”

The detective’s words sucker punched him. “You . . . you think Scott
killed
someone?”

“I didn’t say that. Just want to ask him a few questions. Maybe it’d be better if you came downtown and we talked at my office.”

“About what? I’ve already told you I don’t know where he is.” He tried to keep his tone neutral while his fingers itched to throttle Taylor. No telling what she’d told the detective.

“I need a little more information on your brother, and since I can’t find him, you’re the next best thing.”

Nick rubbed the bridge of his nose as he considered the request.
At least it wasn’t a demand. Plus, he might learn something about Scott from this detective.

“All right, Detective Reynolds, but I can’t today.” The revisions had to be finished and emailed to his editor by morning. And he wanted to look for his brother.

“Tomorrow, before noon, then?”

“Ten o’clock?”

“Great. And Mr. Sinclair, if you hear from Scott, would you please let me know?”

“I’ll see you in the morning.” Nick ended the call and sat in his driveway, making no move to get out of the car. A murder investigation? He squeezed his eyes shut.
What next, Scott?

Maybe he needed to talk to a criminal lawyer as well before he met with this detective. But which one? Memphis had a plethora of attorneys. Scott’s trustee practiced corporate law, but perhaps he could recommend a good criminal defense attorney, if it came to that. If Ethan Trask would talk to him.

He’d contacted Trask about Scott’s whereabouts before calling the private investigator, only for Trask to inform him that since Nick was no longer Scott’s guardian, he couldn’t help him. Maybe he’d get a different outcome in a face-to-face conversation

Nick glanced at his watch. A little after four. Perhaps he could reach Trask before he left for the day. He grabbed his bags and entered the house through the back door. In his office the light on his answering machine blinked with two messages. He pressed play.

When no one spoke, Nick reached to press delete, but a low moan stopped him. Scott?

“Nick, I know you’re mad at me . . . but I need your help. I had this argument with some dude, and now he’s dead. I’m afraid the cops are lookin’ for me.”

The message ended abruptly.

“Tuesday, two-o-five,” intoned the robotic voice.

Another message. “Nick, where are you? Please come get me.”

Scott didn’t say where he was. Nick scanned the caller ID. The
calls came from pay phones. He jotted the numbers down and turned on his computer. While it booted up, he found Trask’s number in the phone directory and dialed. When the secretary answered, he identified himself and asked to speak with Trask.

“I’m sorry, but he’s out of the office this afternoon. Can you call back in the morning?”

“Can I make an appointment for tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” Her tone indicated she assumed Nick was joking.

“Unless he’ll be back this afternoon.”

After a brief wait on hold, she informed him that because of a cancellation, the lawyer could see him at nine. Nick thanked her and hung up as icons appeared on his computer screen. He clicked on the internet and found the site he’d bookmarked for pay phone locations. He’d discovered the website while doing research for his book . . . the one the editor wanted revisions on by morning. Maybe he could get a little grace there.

Nick jotted down the addresses for the pay phones and logged them into MapQuest. One was on Cooper, the other on Young. He logged off and grabbed his keys. Maybe someone around there would know where he could find Scott.

Taylor. Should he call her? He had promised to tell her if he heard from Scott. But that was before she’d gone straight to the Memphis police.

Taylor swung from I-240 onto the Bill Morris Parkway. Traffic moved efficiently, and in another twenty minutes she left the Parkway behind for a four-lane highway and rolling green hills dotted with horses and cattle. Every mile brought her closer to home . . . and dealing with her family.

Before she knew it, Taylor was on the bypass around Logan Point with her exit coming up. She checked her watch. It had taken thirty minutes from downtown Memphis to the bypass. The big city crouched at their door. She made the turn, glancing at a black
SUV in her rearview mirror. It had been behind her since she left Memphis. When she turned onto Coley Road, she slowed to see if it turned. Unease crept into her mind when it came into view. Was someone following her? She deliberately slowed the Rav4. When she looked into her rearview mirror again, the SUV was gone. Taylor released a pent-up breath, and heat flushed her face. She hated the residual effects of the assault.

Taylor topped a hill and stepped back in time. On the left was the pasture where she rode her mare . . . and the pond where she and Livy and Robyn swam. The places where she’d ridden her bike . . . the old oak she used to climb. The memories soothed like good chocolate. She lowered her window, inhaling air laced with fresh-cut grass.

The Duncan house came into view, then the open meadow where her dad had talked old Mr. Duncan into letting him build a baseball field for the neighborhood kids. She slowed her car, looking for signs where they’d run the bases, and remembered how her dad had coached the ragtag seven- and eight-year-olds, molding them into a team. A shadow raced across the field, and unexpectedly she ached for what had been one of the best summers of her life—the summer before her father left. She raised the window and gunned the SUV, leaving the memories behind.

Taylor pulled into the circle, and her heart caught when she spied her mom waiting on the porch. Allison Martin embodied the steel magnolias of the past. Her quiet strength had been tempered in the trial of her husband’s abandonment, and she had chosen the path of graciousness rather than bitterness.

Dressed in white cropped pants and a blue silk blouse that fluttered as she descended the porch steps, Mom was a picture of genteel beauty and charm. So opposite of herself. Much to her mom’s chagrin, Taylor had never been a girly-girl, preferring instead to climb trees and tag after her brother. She smoothed her wrinkled shirt and climbed out of the Rav4. The smell of fresh-cut clover tickled her nose.

Her mother wrapped her arms around her in a long hug. “It’s about time.” Then she stepped back and cocked her head. “You’re too skinny.”

Taylor pressed her lips together. “Nice to see you too, Mom.”

“Oh, don’t be so prickly. At least I didn’t say anything about how tired you look,” Mom said, the corners of her lips curving upward slightly.

Taylor followed her mom up the steps, catching the screen door before it banged shut. The sweet scent of honeysuckle pervaded the foyer.
“Mom, look what I picked for you.”
The memory of her mom laughing and accepting the tangle of vines from her small hands pricked Taylor’s heart. Her steps slowed, and she looked around at all the changes.

“I didn’t know you’d replaced the carpet.”

“We put new hardwood down five years ago when we painted.”

Which you would know if you’d been home.
That’s what Mom would like to say, Taylor was certain. “I like it. And I’m glad the green fleur-de-lis wallpaper is gone too. Everything looks so much bigger.”

“Thank you, dear. I wish you’d been here to help remove it.”

She shot a quick glance at her mom. No accusation on her face, only wistfulness . . . Taylor jerked herself up short. She didn’t know what was wrong with her. Yes, she did. Guilt. She could’ve come home before, but it had been so much easier to stay in Newton rather than come back to the place where she wasn’t good enough. Not good enough to keep her father from leaving, not even good enough to be valedictorian of her graduating high school class, coming in as salutatorian instead.

Honeysuckle tickled her nose again, and she followed the fragrant aroma to a vase in the dining room, noting the ecru walls extended there as well. She trailed her fingers across the smooth cherry table and breathed in her favorite fragrance.

“It’s good to finally have you home,” her mother said softly from behind. “Jonathan wanted to be here when you arrived, but
you know how it is when the hay’s ready, but he’ll be around. He’s taking a few days off from the office. He should be in for supper, and Chase will be home from his conference tomorrow in time for lunch.”

Taylor nodded and inhaled the honeysuckle again. A shadow crossed her heart, and she shivered.
Someone’s walking
over your grave.
She tried to shake off Granna Martin’s old wives’ tale, but the feeling settled in her bones and spread.

“The land Jonathan wants to sell,” Taylor said as she turned around. “Chase said you want to keep it. Is that right?”

Her mom hesitated. “I don’t know yet. I’m still praying about it.”

That figured. Her mom prayed about everything.

Upstairs, Taylor absorbed the changes in her bedroom, which was no longer her bedroom but a guest room. Walls were now a soft robin’s egg blue and accented by a white ruffled coverlet and strategically placed Delft vases—a reflection of her mom’s tastes and definitely not Taylor’s at eighteen, or even now. She kind of missed the ruby-red walls and Mick Jagger posters, though. She might even take the posters back to Newton if they were still around.

She paused at her dresser and picked up a clunky bowl filled with potpourri that seemed out of place with the Delft. The first decent piece of pottery she’d made, a Mother’s Day present. Taylor set it back on the white dresser, and the shadow crossed her heart again, only this time it filled her with longing. She almost wished . . . She stiffened her spine. Staying had not been an option. Not with a full scholarship to New York University in her hands. After that it was easier to let Mom, and everyone else, visit her.