“Maybe you should be flattered I suspected you.”

  She told me not to push it. “But speaking of absurd,” she said, “did the hitchhiking girlfriend ever catch up with the Destiny?”

  “Molly. That’s not why I’m calling. Didn’t you tell me Sarah called your boss that day?”

  “About Judy? That’s right.”

  I shook my head. “That’s wrong. Sarah swears she never called her.”

  “Really? Okay, let me think.”

  I let Molly think and stared down at the lake. Truman and I needed to get going—

  “To be honest, Sarah could be right,” she said eventually. “Rebecca told me she got a call from the sheriff’s office. I just assumed it was Sarah.”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, somebody called. Does it matter who?”

  Maybe. I asked her to call her boss and find out, and she agreed to try.

  “But not this early,” she said. “No one in their right mind disturbs Rebecca Pryce on a Saturday morning.”

  I told her there was no great hurry since I’d be busy with Truman most of the day. “We’re going for a bike ride, and then I’m taking him out for pizza,” I said. “But you can leave a message with my father.”

  “Girl!” the man in question hollered. “We’re still waiting, and P.T.’s here.”

  P.T.?

  Insert colorful words…Here.

  Chapter 46

  “P.T.!” I tried to sound all breezy as I hustled down the stairs. “I didn’t hear your car. It’s, umm, nice to see you!”

  Dad rolled his eyes and ushered Truman toward the door. “We’ll be outside if you need us,” he said, and then he left me.

  Alone. With P.T. Dent.

  Have I mentioned my father drives me nuts?

  “You can sit down.”

  I jumped and turned, and P.T. grinned.

  “I don’t bite,” he added.

  Okay, so I took a seat. “Let me guess. Jason Sterling decided we still need a bodyguard.”

  He did. P.T. told me a couple Hilleville cops had the afternoon shift. “I’m the morning shift.” Another grin. “Now that I’m no longer a suspect.”

  I cringed. “Sorry about that.”

  “You okay with this, Cassie? You can call Captain Sterling to verify if you’d like.”

  I said that wouldn’t be necessary, and P.T. asked if I really thought he killed Judy.

  “I liked Judy,” he said.

  I reminded him I’m Miss Looney Tunes and again apologized, but he told me not to worry.

  “To be honest, I was flattered.”

  “Say what?”

  “Most people don’t take me so seriously.” P.T. tapped his chest. “It’s not easy looking like Barney Fife.”

  “Try looking like a blonde Betty Boop,” I mumbled, and we moved on to the day’s plan.

  My father had already told him Maxine’s news, and our goal to give the kid a happy, happy day.

  “Bobby’s loaning me his bike,” P.T. said. “And we made another decision without your consent.” He jerked a thumb toward the driveway, and I noticed some banging going on. “The training wheels are coming off.”

  “No!” I jumped to my feet, and waved for P.T. to get up also.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Truman can handle it.”

  “It’s not Truman I’m worried about.” I tossed P.T. his jacket and grabbed mine. “You’ve never seen my father take a tool to anything,” I said. “Trust me, this won’t be pretty.”

  ***

  Trust me, it wasn’t.

  Wrench in hand, Dad stood over the bike, scowling and frowning at the training wheels—mutilated but still stubbornly attached.

  “Help us, Momma Cass?” Truman sounded desperate, but unfortunately, we Baxters are all mechanically inept.

  Good old P. T. came to the rescue. He grabbed the wrench from my father, and the training wheels came off. While he was at it, he also raised the seat on Bobby’s bike, and by the time that was done, Truman had mastered biking without training wheels.

  “Let’s race!” he called out when he and Charlie were already halfway up Leftside Lane.

  P.T. and I hurried to catch up, but by the time we rounded the bumpy corner of Leftside Lane, the kid and the dog were already dodging potholes on Elizabeth Circle, and they stayed ahead of us all the way to the southern end of the lake.

  When we passed the turn for Mallard Cove, I thought of Fanny’s tea party which Truman was likely going to miss, and I must have sighed.

  P.T. glanced over. “You okay?”

  I pointed. “Fanny and Iris Abernathy have been friends for decades,” I said. “Yet she knew nothing about this half-brother Iris had. Doesn’t that sound fishy?”

  “Nope. Kids back than were trained to keep family secre—

  “Catch me, Momma Cass!” Truman called out as Oden’s farm came into view.

  P.T. was right. Some kids are very good at keeping secrets.

  ***

  We needn’t have hurried. In typical Rose and Ruby fashion, the gals had already taken off for their morning stroll, and in typical Oden Poquette fashion, our friendly neighborhood farmer was about to take off on his morning jog to find them.

  We bikers volunteered do the honors. We made the loop up the east side of the lake. No goats. Past the Lake School, the Lake Store, and Town Hall. No goats, no goat, no goats. Past the Congregational Church. Nope.

  We finally found them at the public beach, at the exact opposite end of the lake from Oden’s farm. Herding goats hadn’t been on the agenda, but Truman and Charlie wanted to try, so we spent the next hour poking, prodding, and coaxing Rose and Rudy homeward. It was slow going even before we passed Leftside Lane and had to convince Charlie the gals weren’t interested in visiting the Jolly Green Giant.

  When we finally did get them back to the farm, the kid and the dog were suddenly in a great big hurry to get home. They made a U-turn and took off.

  I glanced at P.T. “He has to go to the bathroom,” I said, and we raced home also.

  I sent Truman to an upstairs bathroom and turned to my father. “Any calls?”

  Dad blinked. “You should be moving along to Santucci’s.”

  I jumped. “She actually called!? What did she say?”

  “Who?” P.T. asked.

  “Ms. Mauve.” I stared pacing, and the guys backed up to avoid being trampled.

  “She’s coming by later today,” my father told me. “She said she has to talk to you.”

  I silent-screamed a colorful word, and he mentioned I’d gotten another call.

  “Someone named Molly Donahue?”

  P.T. scowled at me. “You know Molly?”

  “Errands, errands, errands.” I focused on my father. “So? Did Molly talk to Rebecca Pryce?”

  Dad shook his head. “She isn’t answering her landline, and we all know how shaky cell phone coverage is around here.”

  “What do you need from Rebecca Pryce?” P.T. asked, and it occurred to me that he might have the information I needed.

  I described the problem and asked who in the sheriff’s office had made the call to Rebecca Pryce.

  “Not me,” P.T. said.

  “Then it must have been the sheriff,” I said, but P.T. also mentioned Ginger Graham, the EMT.

  “Ginger’s the one who called Sarah,” he reminded me.

  Maybe, but Molly had said the call came from the sheriff’s office.

  P.T. promised to check when he got to work. “Whoever made the call to Rebecca Pryce, I’ll find out.”

  “Ms. Pryce is returning soon,” Truman said as he came down the stairs.

  “Retiring,” I corrected.

  ***

  Next up, Santucci’s. The place has the best pizza in Hilleville, but until that Saturday I’d never appreciated its kid-friendly atmosphere. But what a shocker, Truman loved the place. He wolfed down his slice, asked for permission, and ran out to the patio to join the five thousand other children on the playground.

  P.T. and I picked up our paper plates and went out to watch from one of the benches set aside for parents.

  “Look at me, Momma Cass!” Truman hollered.

  Oh, I was definitely looking. The kid had found the highest rung on the jungle gym and was purposely hanging from one hand.

  “Don’t fal—”

  He purposely let go.

  I’m guessing it hurt me more than it did him, and by the time I finished wincing, he was doing it again.

  “Let’s race!” he suggested to the kid closest to him when he landed., and they took off for the slide. That looked safe —

  “Yoo-hoo?”

  I tore my eyes away, and P.T. reminded me of the plan. He had followed me to Santucci’s so he could leave for work from there, and once he got to the sheriff’s office, he would call in the afternoon shift of bodyguards.

  “Stay put for fifteen minutes,” he said. “Let the Hilleville cops get into position.”

  I mentioned I didn’t need a fender bender with the Hilleville cops to add to my troubles. “Tell them stay out of sight completely. You got it?”

  “You sound like Sarah.”

  Yikes. I apologized. Then I apologized again for ever suspecting that P.T. could kill anyone. “You’re one of the good guys, Percival Theobald Dent the Third.”

  He shot me his goofiest grin. “If that name ever gets around, I’ll be a lot less good.”

  Chapter 47

  Fifteen minutes later I gathered up Truman, and we headed out to Cornerstone Antiques Barn. I didn’t notice the Hilleville cops following me, which meant the child couldn’t see them, either. Thank you, P.T. Dent.

  Thank you, Cornerstone Antiques. The little rocking chair I remembered from my last visit was still there, and we walked straight to it, since I was confident Truman wouldn’t be interested in browsing the entire inventory in the huge barn.

  “Sit,” I said, and he gave it a spin. “Do you like it?”

  He smiled and rocked, which I took as a yes, but next up—getting the thing in my car.

  I’ve thrown about a million rocking chairs into the trunk of my Honda, and never had any trouble. Usually I just fold down the backseat, maneuver my purchase into place, and throw an old quilt over it. But this time the child safety seat was in the way.

  Why hadn’t I replaced the thing with a compact booster seat like Dad had in his car? But at that point it didn’t matter. I’d give Ms. Mauve both seats when she came to take Truman, and she could donate them to some foster fam—

  “Why are you so sad?”

  I jumped. “Not sad!” I tapped the rocking chair. “Just flustered.”

  I went back to work and eventually got the chair mostly in, and the trunk tied mostly closed.

  “Where to?” I asked. “Let’s pretend we’re Chance Dooley and can go anywhere in the galaxy.”

  “The bird park?”

  Crumble Creek Park. How perfectly bittersweet.

  Truman and I would have our last heart to heart at the place we had our first. Because the more I thought about it, the more I knew I was the one to break the news about his long lost family. Not Ms. Mauve, not Debra Eskew. It was up to me. Momma Cass.

  I crossed my fingers I’d find the right words and told Truman to hop in.

  ***

  “Why are you so sad?”

  I glanced into the rearview mirror. “Not sad!”

  “Whatcha thinking about?”

  “How about colors?” I asked. “What color should I paint your chair?”

  “Not pink.” Truman was clear on that but otherwise seemed uncertain. “What color do you think, Momma Cass?”

  I told him we Baxters like bright colors and scowled at the road ahead. Why didn’t I know the child’s favorite color? Why hadn’t I ever asked him? What other important things had I never bothered to ask?

  “I like the color of our house,” he said.

  I swallowed hard. “You like jolly-green-giant green?

  “Gree-eeen.”

  “Lime green it is!” I tapped the steering wheel. “I’ll paint it in the next couple weeks and deliver it to you. How’s that?”

  “Deliver?”

  “Oh. Umm.” I cringed and reminded him we were pretending to be Chance Dooley.

  ***

  But Chance Dooley was celebrating with a nice big crowd at the Whoozit Loozit. Cripple Creek Park, on the other hand, was deserted. I glanced around as we started down the path. Where exactly were those Hilleville cops?

  “Maybe we should go back to Lake Bess,” I suggested. “We can bake cookies.”

  “Not yet!” the kid said and took off, arms flapping.

  “Truman, wait!” I took off. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m flying, Momma Cass.”

  I pretended to fly also, and we raced circles around a grove of oak trees until I got dizzy.

  “Can we stop now?” I begged.

  We stopped, and I caught my breath, and we continued walking along the path. I glanced around. Where exactly were those cops?

  “What’s that?” Truman asked, and I jumped.

  He pointed to some bushes, and I identified a Scarlet Tanager.

  “Aren’t they beautiful? But he’s late migrating.” I glanced down at the blond crew cut. “Sometimes it’s hard to change homes,” I said. “But sometimes a new home is even better than the old.”

  I told the bird to be brave and waved a hand, and he flew away.

  We kept walking. “Sometimes people have to change homes also,” I said.

  “I like Lake Bess.”

  “But Burlington’s nice. It’s a city. Cities are exciting.”

  “I like Lake Bess.”

  Was this going well or what?

  I took a deep breath and tried again. “Sometimes people have to go away, Truman.”

  “Like my real momma went away?”

  Oh, yeah. This was going really well.

  The big blue eyes looked up at me. “That was a bad day, Momma Cass.”

  I knelt down and took his hands in mine. “I know it was, Truman. But I’m so glad I got to meet you.”

  “Can we go home and make cookies now?”

  I nodded mutely, and we started moving toward the car. And coward that I am, I let the subject switch to cookie-baking.

  “Do cookies cook in the oven?” Truman asked.

  “Yep,” I said. “Although I have no idea what temp—”

  “My momma said it was hot as an oven in there.”

  “In where?”

  “In her office. It has ghosts.”

  I stopped short, and stared aghast.

  “Silly!” He pushed at me with both hands. “The ghosts are pretend.”

  “Oh, right.” I rolled my eyes at my own silliness, and we kept moving.

  “Sooo?” I said eventually. “You were at your momma’s office Sunday?”

  “We were getting secrets.”

  I almost tripped over—nothing. I cleared my throat. “Secrets about your great grandma’s house?”

  The crew cut nodded.

  “The Hilleville House?”

  “Nooo. The house on Maple Street.” He tilted his head way back and watched a few crows fly over.

  I listened to them squawking. The house. On Maple Street.

  I tapped his shoulder, and Truman shifted his gaze. “Do you know what those secrets are?” I asked.

  “No. But I know where they are.”

  Hello. I asked where, but in typical Truman-fashion, he told me the secrets hiding place was—you guessed it—a secret. Then he locked his lips and threw away the key.

  I held up an index finger and stepped away to rummage around in the fallen leaves.

  “Found it!” I stood up and jiggled the key, and scurried over to unlock his lips. “Where are the secrets, Truman?”

  “On a flash drive.”

  On. A flash drive.

  I crossed my fingers. “Where’s the flash drive?”

  “Let’s race!” he said and took off for the car.

  “Truman, wait!” I ran, too, and by the time I caught up, he was tugging at the door and talking about cookies again.

  I told him patience is a virtue and opened the door, but instead of climbing into his car seat, he crawled in head first and poked around under the cushion.

  Holy. Moly.

  I held my breath, and sure enough the kid backed out and held out his hand.

  In case you haven’t quite caught on, he was holding a flash drive.

  I held out the secrets key. “Trade you.”

  Chapter 48

  I stared aghast while Truman buckled himself in.

  Into his car seat.

  The only thing, other than Truman himself, to leave Mr. Hooper’s cow pasture unscathed. The only thing no one had thought to search. Not the good guys—Jason looked through Truman’s things only after I’d driven off to work on whatever day that was. And the car seat wasn’t anywhere near Maple Street when the bad guy—make that, bad girl—ransacked that house. And my car was at Bingo the night she hit the Jolly Green Giant.

  “Momma Cass?”

  I looked up. “Cookies coming up!” I said and slipped the flash drive into my jeans pocket.

  ***

  I was so distracted it took me three attempts to start the car.

  I glanced in the rearview mirror. “We’ll get there,” I promised. “In the meantime, let’s show Grandpa Bobby how smart we are. What exactly goes into chocolate chip cookies?”

  Truman started with the basics. “Five bags of chocolate chips.”

  “That sounds about right.” I pulled out of the parking lot and headed for Route 19. “What else?”

  “Six sticks of butter.”

  “Keep going,” I said.

  Speaking of going, by the time I hit Route 19, we were going way too fast.

  “What else?” I asked as I tried to slow down.

  “Three dozen eggs.”

  I pumped the brakes. Something wasn’t righ—

  “How many eggs in a dozen?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “Close!” I almost sideswiped a truck going in the opposite direction. I tried down-shifting, and my car made a terrible sound. “Flour?” I asked, pumping the brakes.