“As long as you realize the consequences of talking to me. The investigation is still open and you could be charged again.”

  Earlene rolled her eyes. “That isn’t going to happen.”

  “Can you explain how your fingerprints got on the Lincoln’s steering wheel?”

  “Of course! I’ve driven that Lincoln more than once when Eve’s had too much to drink! I drove that car just a few days ago.”

  “What about the knife the police found?”

  “Well, clearly Eve was right to feel paranoid at the restaurant Saturday night. Somebody was following her, just like she thought. Whoever it was, overpowered her in the car on Sunday and drove her to wherever she was killed. And I’ll bet you they wore gloves when they drove the car and when they stabbed her with the knife. I’ve seen that lots of times on television.”

  “This isn’t television!”

  “I know—and I didn’t kill her!”

  I tried not to shake my head in disbelief as I made a few more notes and we both stood.

  “When do you think you’ll be back in the office?” I asked finally.

  “Daddy wants me to go back to Texas to visit some old friends until this blows over. My lawyer says I need to stay until this whole thing gets resolved. I may not listen to either one of them,” she shrugged. “I may go to the Bahamas. I can’t go back to that office as long as people think I killed somebody.”

  *****

  I returned to the newsroom for a few minutes to check in before calling it a day. Marcus waved at me as he finished up a story on the annual meeting the county commission held with township trustees. He also had photos of the fair board painting the cattle barns at the fairgrounds in preparation for next month’s fair.

  Dennis had a whole list of messages for me: Graham was awaiting a trial verdict on the school bus driver caught driving drunk and wouldn’t be back in the office until he heard one way or another. Two people called about being left out of an obituary, claiming to be children from their deceased father’s unknown first marriage, and the city school transportation coordinator wanted to do a story about two new buses the district purchased but couldn’t get in touch with Charisma.

  “Where is she, anyway?” I asked Dennis. “I haven’t heard from anybody. My cell phone hasn’t rung all afternoon.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s put in a lot of hours over the last few days, according to her time card. She might have gone home for the day.”

  I nodded and laid the message on her desk. She could get it tomorrow.

  “Well, I think I’m going to do the same,” I said.

  In a few minutes, I was pulling up the long gravel driveway to the farmhouse, past the soybean field where the tiny green leaves were starting to poke through the rich, black soil.

  It was one of those perfect Ohio days where white puffy clouds hung in a light blue sky. Today, one of them hovered behind our old red barn; the Holsteins in the paddock outside the barn added to the pastoral scene. Duncan’s old Allis Chalmers tractor stood outside the barn, hitched to a hay wagon, which held several plastic-wrapped round bales, the first cut from our hay fields. They would be used to feed our heifers later this summer and into the fall and winter. A second cutting would come about a month later, and depending on the weather, we might be able to get a third cutting, which could be a source of cash when we sold it to area horse owners.

  I am so lucky to be here, I thought to myself as I parked my Taurus next to the side door. On this beautiful day, on this beautiful farm, who could want anything else?

  The old wooden screen door, which led into the kitchen, was open. As I stepped from the car, a high-pitched angry wail pealed from inside the farmhouse.

  “Hi guys,” I said, stepping into the kitchen. “Did I hear a baby cry?”

  Duncan and Isabella stood in front of the microwave. Duncan turned to face me.

  “Oh, hi,” he said. “We’ve got some company tonight.” In his arms was a small, red-faced bundle, kicking and crying. The microwave beeped, and Isabella removed a bottle. She took the baby from her father and popped the bottle into its mouth, instantly stopping the squalling.

  “Hi Mom. This is Miss Gwendolyn Kinnon, Graham’s daughter,” she said.

  “Ahh, Miss Gwennie,” I said, touching her little face. “I haven’t seen you in a little while.”

  Gwennie, now pleased she had something in her stomach, smiled from around the bottle nipple, formula running from her mouth and into the fat folds of her neck. Duncan wordlessly took a dishtowel from the kitchen counter and wiped it away, laying the towel on Isabella’s shoulder.

  “Graham has another jury he’s waiting on, so I’m watching her again,” Isabella said. “He said he tried to call you and let you know what was going on, but it went straight to voicemail.”

  I grimaced and dug through my purse. “Hmmm. My phone didn’t ring all afternoon—figures, it’s dead. I did hear from Dennis about the trial, though, so we’re good. Dad and I will go out and get the milking done while you feed Gwennie.”

  Duncan and I headed out to the barn as Isabella sat in the living room to finish feeding the baby.

  He reached over and took my hand as we strolled across the grass toward the milking parlor.

  “Kind of nice to have a baby in the house,” he said.

  I looked over at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

  He shrugged and smiled. “Maybe.”

  “Isabella has a couple terms in college yet and no plans beyond this farm, Grandpa,” I said. “Let’s not rush things.”

  Still, after I ran back into town for a pizza, and we all settled into the living room, it was nice to sit back and watch Isabella play with Gwennie on the rug. The drooling, now smiling baby kicked both legs and waved her arms as Isabella held a squeaky toy above her. The joyous sound of a giggling baby, the way Isabella—and Duncan— got down on the floor and played with her… I couldn’t help but feel warm, safe and calm here in my own home.

  But what about Eve? From what I learned from Earlene, she didn’t experience the feelings that now surrounded me. The abuse she allegedly suffered at the hands of her parents clearly colored her relationships with others, both women and men. She bullied other members of the cheerleading squad and the men she dated, subjecting them to physical abuse and lies. Jimmy Lyle did something to her that set her off and, if Earlene was to be believed, he ended up dead. She vandalized yet another young man’s vehicle when he was caught flirting with another girl in a campus bar.

  Her job continued the abuse, if Angela Perry was to be believed, ripping people apart before eliminating their jobs in an effort to streamline corporate efficiency. Was the young man in the creek one of her professional victims? Betty Dahlgren’s reaction was striking: “Eve didn’t like that boy.” What did that mean? Had they been romantically involved? Had he not taken a break up well? Or had this unknown young man come to Jubilant Falls, begging to get his job back? Had she killed him then?

  In Charisma’s story, Hiram Warder surmised that two people committed the murder. But who? Eve and her father? He was still alive at the time the boy’s body was found. Could he have killed him and then out of guilt, committed suicide several years later? Could it have been someone else who lived in that house? Eve never spoke of any siblings, according to Earlene.

  And who was that woman in the ‘Barn Diva’ hat? Where does she fit into all this? Does she work at the farm, caring for the horses as Earlene surmised? Does she help care for Betty Dahlgren? What’s her place in all this?

  Who killed Eve Dahlgren? Who had she enraged in her long history of abuse to make her feel paranoid while out to dinner Saturday with Earlene? Was someone following her? And what would push them far enough to want to kill her?

  My thoughts on Eve’s murder evaporated as Gwennie squalled. Isabella picked her up, patting her on the bottom as the baby sucked ravenously on her fist.

  “Time to call it a night, little one,” Isabella said. “One last bottle and we’re putting you to bed.”

  Duncan made up another bottle of formula and, when the microwave beeped, handed it to Isabella. Gwennie took the rubber nipple into her mouth, sucking until her eyes grew heavy with slumber.

  “Where is she sleeping?” I asked as Isabella walked down the hallway toward the dining room we used as an office.

  “Graham brought over a portable crib,” Duncan said. “We set it up back there the last time Izzy babysat.”

  “What, is this going to be a regular thing?” I asked.

  Duncan shrugged. “It works out pretty well for everybody. Gwennie seems to like Izzy. Graham knows his daughter is OK, Izzy has a little extra money in her pocket and you have a reporter who can stick with a story until it’s done.”

  There was a knock at the kitchen door.

  “Speaking of the devil…Isabella, don’t put her down just yet. Graham’s here.” Duncan walked through the kitchen and let Graham in the door. “Come on in,” he said.

  Graham waved sheepishly at me.

  “Got a verdict?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Guilty. Sentencing will be later this month, but guy won’t be driving a school bus—or anything else—anytime soon. At least that’s what the prosecutor is asking for and the judge indicated he wants to throw the book at him. I can write the story tonight, if you want. We’ll need to follow up with the school district, too, and see if he gets fired.”

  “Go ahead. That way we will have it before the TV stations and the eleven o’clock news,” I said. I knew as soon as he got her settled into bed, he’d sit down and write the story. Many things may have changed in his life, but his drive to be first on a story hadn’t. He could post it from home to the website.

  Isabella brought Gwennie into the kitchen and handed her off to her father. Quickly, we rounded up baby stuff: blankets, toys, bottles, a final bottle of formula from the fridge as Graham fastened his daughter in the car seat outside. Duncan and I handed everything to Izzy, who packed it all in the diaper bag.

  “Got everything?” I asked, reaching for the diaper bag. “I’ll take it out to him if you want.”

  “I got this.” Isabella smiled and pulled the diaper bag closer to her. “Let me go say goodbye to Miss Gwennie.”

  Duncan wrapped his arm around my shoulders as she walked out to Graham’s minivan.

  “It was nice to have a little one around, I have to admit,” I said, leaning against him. “Maybe some day.”

  Duncan drew me close and hugged me. As we parted, I glanced out the kitchen door. I saw Graham lean close to my daughter’s face and his arms slip around Isabella’s shoulders. Did he just kiss my daughter? What the hell is going on here?

  Chapter 24 Charisma

  Who could have done this to me? Who?

  I paced around my studio apartment, shaking with anger and fear. How did the chief of police find out? Who could have told him? Or did he, like Leland, do a simple computer search, dig up my past and was so damned star-struck he had to open his mouth?

  Leland. Who else could have done this to me except Leland? But why tell the police chief? Where and how did they connect?

  I should have known better. I should have listened to that little voice inside me, the one that said he was only working to get me to lower my guard. The feelings I had, that was all crap—manipulations by a man claiming to know what it was like to be the cause of losing someone you loved. Taking me in his arms to soothe my tears, to hide me from those reporters seeking information on Earlene’s arrest, placing a kiss—that kiss—on the back of my hand… It was all crap.

  I got conned—I was stupid enough to let it happen, to open up my heart. That whole story he told about his son dying in a drunken car wreck, about his nasty divorce? It had to be made up, anything to get him to tell me made up, anything to get him to tell me my story, to get me to say everything that happened that horrible, horrible day when Jean Paul died.

  I grabbed my cell from the dinette table and punched in Leland’s number.

  “You bastard!” I screamed as soon as he answered.

  “What?”

  “You broke your promise to me! You exposed me!”

  “I have not!”

  “Bullshit! The police chief, Marvin McGinnis, knows who I am! ‘We don’t get reporters with qualifications like yours…’” I mimicked. “‘Jubilant Falls must seem awfully dull after Baghdad.’ How the fuck would he know who I am? Huh? What did you do to me? What did you do?”

  He was silent for a moment. “I was at my daily Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. There was a police officer there, it must have been the chief. I mentioned you.” His voice sounded sad, but I wouldn’t be sucked into his game this time. I wouldn’t feel sorry for him.

  “You mentioned me? How the hell did you happen to mention me?”

  “What we say at AA is supposed to be kept within the walls of that meeting. Obviously, the chief didn’t do that. I’m sorry.”

  “You just couldn’t wait to tell somebody you’d found me, could you? You just couldn’t wait!” My voice shook with rage.

  “That’s not true. I promised you I’d keep your secret in the article. I wasn’t going to reveal your location there. I was going to give you two weeks notice before the article came out, so you could give notice or tell your boss or whatever you wanted to do. I even went along with your ruse that I was a private investigator. I agreed to every condition you set.”

  “Until you get among your damned AA buddies and you can’t wait to tell them who you’ve found.”

  “No, Charisma. That’s not what happened.”

  “What the hell did you say?”

  Again, he considered his words before answering.

  “I said I met someone that I thought I was starting to have feelings for. That I was scared those feelings would impact my sobriety.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “You can believe what you want. It’s been a long time since I’ve wanted a woman in my life. I’m falling for you.”

  “I may have been born at night, but it wasn’t last night, Leland. I’m not going to fall for that crap. You can go to hell as far as I’m concerned.”

  I disconnected the call and threw my cell phone on the couch. Did he really expect me to believe him? Falling for me, for this scar-covered body?

  I picked up one of the couch pillows and with an angry scream, threw it across the room.

  It landed in front of the bureau where I kept my clothes, next to the only closet in the apartment. I walked across the carpet and yanked open the closet door. Crammed into a corner was the one duffel I’d brought with me when I came to Jubilant Falls. It was military issue; I’d dragged it from one corner of the world to another. After I got out of the hospital the second time, it held everything I had when I came to this stupid little town.

  I yanked it into the middle of the floor and, grunting with each angry movement, began pulling all of my clothing out of my bureau drawers, throwing pants, pajamas, tee shirts and jeans at the duffel bag. When the bureau was empty, I did the same to my closet, tossing dress pants, blouses and my winter coat at the duffel. Some of the clothing landed inside, most of it landed on the floor nearby.

  I had to leave tonight.

  After I packed, I’ll walk over to the newsroom, leave a resignation letter on Addison’s desk, get in my car and hit the road. I could leave a note for my lawyer landlord downstairs: I could tell him to keep my deposit, the dishes I bought, the towels in the bathroom and even the art on the wall. The rent was paid through the end of the month.

  I needed to disappear now.

  The plan had never been to stay here in Jubilant Falls. I was going to get back on my feet here, before moving on to the next step in my career… if there was going to be a career. But where could I go? To my mother’s apartment in Maryland? To Dad and Kate’s condo in Washington? Neither appealed to me. I couldn’t go back to New York. Who would hire me? A newspaper or newspaper service? Not after that Syria article. I couldn’t go on camera without someone commenting on my face and my scars. Maybe I could work as a producer someplace? My passport was still valid—maybe an overseas broadcaster, like Al Jazeera? My Arabic and Farsi were a bit rusty, but each would come back, despite my injuries.

  It would, wouldn’t it?

  The intercom from my downstairs door buzzed as I yanked open the bathroom cabinet. I stomped over and pushed the button.

  “Fuck you, Leland! Fuck you and all you stand for and all you’ve done to me!” I screamed.

  “Charisma, please. Let me in.”

  “I think you’ve done enough for one day.”

  “What I told you on the phone was the truth. I was telling the members of the AA group how frightened I was because I was falling for you. I was afraid I would lose my sobriety.”

  “And you just happened to mention who I was.”

  “Let’s not do this on the street. Let me come up. Let me explain myself.”

  I let my thumb off the intercom button and stomped downstairs.

  I threw open the door. Leland stood there, clutching his Philadelphia Phillies ball hat in his hands. Those blue eyes that once drew me in looked sad and filled with pain. It was a good act, anyway.

  I motioned for him to follow me up the stairs, but didn’t say anything in greeting. Once inside my apartment, I turned and folded my arms.

  “Explain yourself,” I said.

  “I was at an AA meeting, like I told you. I said you were a former war correspondent and your husband was killed by a bomb in Baghdad,” he said. “I said you were severely wounded.”

  “And how many female war correspondents were injured and widowed in Baghdad in the last few years? Huh? One—me.” Enraged, I pointed at myself, my pulse pounding in my temples. “It’s not hard to put all those pieces together, Leland.”

  He hung his head. “I know. I just counted on the confidentiality of the meeting.”

  “And I counted on you keeping your mouth shut at all times, which you didn’t do.”