Shadows of the Past (Logan Point Book #1): A Novel (3 page)

Sometimes her father joined them, looking very handsome in his suit and smelling of Old Spice. Tears burned her eyes, and Taylor blinked them back. Her father. Didn’t take a degree in psychology to figure out that the root of her failed relationships began and ended with him and the day he’d walked out of their lives.

The kettle whistled, piercing the air, and Taylor poured steaming water into the pot. After the tea steeped, she poured a cup and took it to the den, then retrieved her laptop from her bedroom. Some burglar . . . didn’t even find her computer in plain sight.

Settling in the recliner, she sipped the tea and clicked on her email and waited. The university server had become so slow. Finally, her account came up, and she scanned the inbox. A reply from Livy.

She opened the email from her childhood friend, now a detective for the Memphis Police Department. She’d asked Livy to locate her father’s old case files, since the MPD had investigated his disappearance—he’d last been seen boarding a Dallas flight at Memphis International Airport. Livy had finally gotten around to making inquiries last month, and Taylor had emailed her again Sunday, inquiring about any progress.

Sorry I haven’t had time to look for your dad’s files. When are you coming home? I can get authorization for you to look for them. Besides, I’d love to see you, kiddo.

Home. Logan Point, Mississippi. Twenty-three miles east of Memphis. Twenty-three
hundred
miles from Newton.

A wave of homesickness blindsided her. Livy had been her best friend until Taylor left home. Then she’d been too busy getting her doctorate and working with the Florida State Police, then the Georgia Bureau of Investigation to make a new best friend.

Taylor had opted not to teach the June session and had planned
to visit Logan Point in July, mostly to get her mom off her back. She supposed she could move the date up.

It wasn’t like she didn’t have a relationship with her family—she talked to her mom every week. Taylor’s fingers hovered over the keyboard.
I’m working on it, ma chère.

She almost deleted the childhood term they’d used when one of them needed rescuing. Livy was the only person who understood why she hated coming home, and how much her father’s desertion affected her.

Taylor hesitated, then typed once more.

In case I haven’t said, don’t mention
to Jonathan I’m looking for Dad’s files.

Her uncle had blown up when she’d called him at Thanksgiving and broached the subject of her dad. “Taylor, don’t stir this up again. The gossip was bad enough the first time around. He’s gone. It’s in the past. Let it stay there. And why all of a sudden do you want to know?”

But it wasn’t sudden. She’d always wanted to know, only no one in the family would ever talk about his leaving, and she put it behind her. Or so she thought. When Michael dumped her and the nightmares came back, the smoldering question of why her dad left flamed anew. What was so wrong with her family—with her—that he had taken ten thousand dollars from the farm safe and disappeared? But after her uncle had blown his stack, it’d taken four months and more nightmares before she started her search again.

Taylor couldn’t understand Jonathan’s problem—it was his brother who’d been missing for twenty years. She pressed her lips together. What her uncle didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Taylor copied the contents of the email and added it to the other information she’d compiled in a file labeled James E. Martin
.
She added a few notes, then closed the file and checked her watch—still time to catch a little of the morning news.

Taylor clicked on the TV. The title of a book,
Dead Men Don’t
Lie
, filled the screen as the
A.M. News
co-host spoke in the background.

“. . . debuted at number nine on the
New York
Times
bestseller list and continues to climb.”

As Taylor sipped tepid tea, the camera panned to host Laura West, tanned, blonde, and dressed in business black, and then to the guest. “Nicholas, welcome to the show.”

Taylor caught her breath. Nick Sinclair? They never had gotten together after that awful night. “Thank you, Laura. Glad to be here.”

Nick’s laid-back Southern drawl countered West’s clipped tone, and Taylor refreshed her memory of him. He still had that hint of a beard. On purpose, she decided. He’d gotten a haircut, though. She had kind of liked the dark curls on his neck. The camera backed off, revealing jeans and cowboy boots.

Unease pricked Taylor’s heart. Nick had struck her as vulnerable, and Laura West was famous for ferreting out information her guest didn’t always want to divulge. She almost felt sorry for this author she’d never heard of until two days ago.

Taylor’s stomach rumbled, and she glanced toward the kitchen. Cranberry bagels a neighbor had brought yesterday or English muffins? She settled on the bagels. After refilling her cup, she popped a bagel in the toaster, half listening as Nick spent a few minutes talking about what it meant to grow up in the South.

She caught the words “RC Colas” and “Moon Pie” and “sweet tea.” Nodding, she returned to her chair. It’d been years since she’d thought about the taste of banana-flavored marshmallow sandwiched between two graham crackers and the way it stuck to the roof of her mouth. Hard to believe she and Nick had grown up only twenty miles from each other. For a moment, she slipped into that time when she and her friends played hard, most nights lingering outside until well after dark.

The memory faded, replaced by another recollection, unbidden and unwanted. It’d happened the summer after her dad left, when
her mom was on an out-of-town trip. Taylor and her friends were playing “Mother May I?” in the field beside her house, the light waning into that dusky time when day faded into night, and one by one, parents called their children home until she stood alone.

Taylor frowned. Why the memories all of a sudden? She threw off the haunting recollection and focused on the TV.

“So, I understand you’re a fan of the blues. You even play a blues harmonica.”

Nicholas laughed. “I try. It’s hard to live in Memphis and not like blues. Or Elvis.”

“True.” Laura leaned forward. “Let’s talk about your book. It’s about college politics, intrigue, and murder. Was it difficult to write about murder after what happened to your wife?” The anchor had injected just the right note of sympathy in her voice.

Nick’s wife had been murdered? Taylor frowned as the camera switched from the full-blown compassion in Laura’s face and zoomed in on Nick, catching the quick smile that didn’t quite reach those hazel eyes. Taylor applauded him as he held on to his smile.

“Death, even murder, is always difficult for me to write about. Life is precious, and I try to convey that in my books. It’s very important when I write those scenes that I show the body being treated with dignity, no matter whose death it is.” Nick leaned toward Laura. “Don’t forget,
Dead Men
Don’t Lie
is also about love and relationships and good and evil.”

Good job, Nick.
Taylor wanted to clap.

“Still, I find it fascinating that you write about murder. Do you think your wife would approve of your subject matter?”

“My wife did some of the research for the book, and a percentage of the sales will go toward building a camp for inner-city boys in Memphis, a project that was dear to her heart and now mine.”

“Very commendable.” Laura West glanced down at her notes. “I understand you have a new book coming out in November. Who did the research for it?”

He raised his hand. “I did all my own research this time. It’s about the murder of a news anchor—”

“Really?” Laura’s eyes widened. “Are you putting me on?”

Amusement stretched across Nick’s face. “Why, Laura, I would never put you on.”

She paused a minute, then tilted her head and gave him a genuine smile. “I want to thank Nick Sinclair for being our guest on
A.M. News
today. He’ll be signing
Dead Men Don’t Lie
at the Barnes and Noble on—”

Taylor raised the remote and pressed the off button. Nick appeared to be the real deal, a true Southern gentleman. Maybe even worth getting to know better. She bet he wouldn’t leave a Dear Jane note on the seat of
his
fiancée’s car.

I
don
’
t
love
you
.
Nick Sinclair stared at the words he’d typed and flexed his fingers. The mournful riffs of “Careless Love” from Big Walter Horton’s harmonica filled his office even as the blinking cursor mocked him.

He tapped his foot to the slow rhythm of the blues tune. Maybe he should turn the music off. Instead, he hit the backspace key. At this rate he’d never finish the revisions his editor wanted by morning. It’d been this way ever since he’d returned from Seattle over a week ago. Taylor Martin kept getting in the way.

Nick bookmarked the page and went to the next section of revision, working for an hour before he hit a blank wall again.

“Come on, Nick
, you can do this. You’ve done it before, remember
?”
Angie’s voice crashed through his veiled memory like a tsunami, washing him in guilt and then in anger.

His leather chair creaked as he leaned back and folded his arms. There shouldn’t be someone like Taylor to think about.
Angie
should be here
.
He focused on the music, letting it carry him to times before that dark night two and a half years ago.

His wife had been with him through the lean years, the days of beans and rice, always his cheerleader. She should be here now to see his success. Could she see from heaven that his last book made the
New York Times
bestseller list?

She’d always insisted success would happen before he turned thirty. She’d been right, and he ought to be floating around the room. He would be . . . if he had someone to float with. If he still had Angie. Somberly, Nick raised an imaginary toast to her photo on his desk. “Thanks for believing in me.”

His cell rang, and he glanced at the ID, not recognizing the number. “Hello?”

“Nick Sinclair?”

The voice held a faint Southern undertone. Blue eyes and raven hair flashed in his mind. “Taylor?”

“I thought I had dialed the wrong number.”

“Is everything okay?” His heart thumped in his chest. He should have already gotten back with her and explained about the poem instead of waiting until after he found Scott.

“Slowly getting back to normal, whatever that is. I saw your television interview last week. You held your own with Laura West. Came across as a true Southern gentleman.”

“You think so?” At the time he hadn’t cared how he sounded. West overstepped her bounds when she delved into his personal life. “At least she generated a buzz about the book. The signing at Barnes and Noble on Saturday was a huge success.”

“Good. Um . . .”

He didn’t like what he heard in her voice.

“Have you heard from your brother?”

Ah, the real reason for her call. Disappointment surprised him. “And here I thought you were calling just to hear the sound of my voice.”

“I could fib, if you’d like.”

“No, you’ve already wounded me,” he said, faking a sigh. “Seriously though, I haven’t heard anything. I’ve talked with the private investigator, but he hasn’t found him. And just for you, I’ll call him again later tonight, and if he knows anything worthwhile, I’ll let you know. Are there any other suspects?”

“I don’t know. Zeke Thornton doesn’t exactly confide in me.
He’s still trying to say it was a burglary, but I don’t buy it—they didn’t even try to steal my laptop. I’ve been looking at some of the cases I’ve worked on with Sheriff Atkins . . . so far that’s been a dead end. Your brother is still my number one suspect.”

He hesitated, then plunged ahead. “Taylor, you have the wrong person. Scott would never hurt you.”

“You haven’t seen your brother in a while. He could’ve changed.”

“Not that much.”

“Nick, he wrote the poem. I’m almost certain of it.”

That poem again. It was time to tell her he wrote it. He doodled on his desk pad.
Not over the phone.
“How well did you know my brother?”

The line was silent for a moment. “Not well. I met him when he took my Introduction to Criminal Psychology last fall. He was quiet. Made a good grade, as I recall. I did find poems like the one I received doodled in the margin of his outlines.”

Tell
her.

No. He wanted to see her face when he told her, to judge her reaction. Yearning skittered through his heart, surprising him again, and he realized it was more than that. It wasn’t just her reaction he wanted to see. He wanted to see Taylor.

He dropped his gaze, and Angie’s photo pierced him. Her smiling face . . . laughing brown eyes . . . the mugger holding a gun to her head. He swallowed the lump threatening to choke him. “I’ll . . . call you if I find Scott.” After Nick hung up, he sat at his desk. Why did thoughts of Taylor lay a guilt trip on him? Angie was gone, and he didn’t see himself being alone for the rest of his life. Or did he? Sighing, he scrolled through his contacts for the PI’s phone number.

He’d contacted Carl Webster years ago while doing research on his first book. When Angie died, Scott had already taken off for who knew where. But Angie had been like a mother to Scott, and Nick wanted his brother to know. He hired Webster to find him.

With the help of Scott’s lawyer, the investigator found his brother living in Alabama and brought him back in time for the funeral.
What neither Nick nor the investigator had been able to do was keep him sober. Nick winced as he remembered how he’d gone off on Scott. Harsh words that couldn’t be taken back.

The PI answered on the first ring. “What can I do for you, Nick?”

“Just checking to see if you had anything new on Scott.”

“Actually, I do, but since it’s late, I planned to wait until morning to call you.”

Nick checked his watch. He didn’t realize it was already ten-thirty. “What do you have?”

“A prepaid credit card with a $480 purchase three weeks ago at a jewelry store in that same town where he attended college. Newton, Washington.”

“Three weeks ago? And you just now found it?”

“Like I told you when you hired me, I’m not law enforcement. I have to go through channels, and that takes time, especially with something like a prepaid card.”

“But you found him so quickly before.”

“Yeah, his lawyer helped last time because you were legally his guardian. That’s not the case this time. He can’t divulge information Scott wants kept private.”

“I didn’t mean to question your ability. It’s just that I’m frustrated.” With himself as much as Scott. After his brother had shown up at the funeral drunk, Nick had washed his hands of him until a month ago when Scott called out of the blue, crying, wanting help, promising to do better.

He told Scott to come home, but he never showed up. Webster had traced the call to a cell tower in Newton.

“Do you want to handle it like last time, or would you like me to check it out?”

Nick glanced at the photo of Angie again and gripped the phone tighter. Return to Newton? His gaze shifted to his calendar. He could book a flight for Sunday, take a day to check out Webster’s information, and return on Tuesday. “I’ll go myself.”

“Good deal.”

“I need you to do one more thing. Eight years ago, I published a
short story. I’ve googled it, but nothing came up. Would you check to see if you can find it floating around somewhere?”

Nick flew into SeaTac airport Sunday afternoon, rented a car, and drove the hour to Newton. He hoped there wouldn’t be another disaster waiting for him. Scott was the only family he had left, and Nick needed to know his brother was all right and that he hadn’t been the one to use Nick’s poem for a death threat. Then he could clear Scott’s name with Taylor.

A call to the sheriff’s department netted him zero information on Scott. He did find out that while the sheriff remained in the hospital, he was recovering.

Three times he’d taken out his phone to call Taylor, and three times he’d returned it to his pocket, the call unmade. He’d only promised to call if he found Scott, and he hadn’t. So what did he have to say?
Taylor, I’m really attracted to you, but there’s
this thing about my wife. She died and I don
’t know how to move on . . .

Until he did, he better steer clear of the beautiful professor.

She had nothing to do with the fact that he flew twenty-five hundred miles to take care of something that could’ve been done over the phone. If he kept telling himself that, he might believe it. In a hundred years.

After a restless night, Nick drove downtown to Drexler Jewelry, the store listed on the credit card report, arriving a little before ten at the quaint little place in the older, artsy section of Newton. The door jingled shut behind Nick, drawing the attention of a stooped, balding clerk.

“May I help you?”

“I hope so.” Nick pulled a note from his pocket with the information Webster had emailed him. “A purchase from your store showed it was paid for with a credit card belonging to my brother. I want to get a little more information about it.”

“No can do.” The clerk stared him down with watery blue eyes.

“Excuse me?”

“I can’t give you information about someone’s credit card.”

“It’s not his credit card I want to know about. It’s the purchase.”

The jeweler eyed him with tight-lipped suspicion.

“Let me start over. I’m Nick Sinclair, and I haven’t seen my brother in almost three years. This purchase is the first lead I’ve had, and I hoped there might be an address on the receipt. I have the date of purchase and the card number.”

The man hesitated, then his face softened, and he stuck his hand out to Nick. “Herman Drexler. My sister ran off when she was fifteen to get married. I looked for her for years . . . that was over sixty years ago. What’s your brother’s name, and when did he make the purchase?”

Nick grasped his hand. “Thank you. May 8, and it should be under the name Scott Sinclair.”

Herman pulled a gray metal box from under the counter and flipped through the files. “Ah, here it is. I remember this. A phone order for a diamond tennis bracelet. It was mailed to a box number at a receiving service here in Newton that same day.”

A diamond tennis bracelet?
Nick’s mind raced. He’d expected a man’s watch maybe, but a woman’s bracelet? He jotted down the number and the name of the service to give to Carl Webster.

Herman reached under the counter again and brought out a black satin box. “This is a bracelet like he bought.”

He opened the box, revealing a simple yet elegant circle of round diamonds. At least his brother had good taste. “Thank you for your time.”

“Sorry I couldn’t be more help. I hope you find your brother.”

Nick sat in his car, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. He took out his cell and called the private investigator, only to be told he was out for the morning.

“Maybe I can help you.”

“Just have him call me.” Nick hung up. Moments passed before he pulled away from the curb and drove toward the university. He’d been kidding himself to think he wouldn’t go see Taylor.