The First Wife (6 page)

Her days had fallen into a predictable pattern, as well; one that revolved around
Logan’s schedule instead of her own. He had been busy, pulled between his land management
firm and farm business.

But she hadn’t been bored. Or lonely. Her things had arrived from Nebraska and a good
bit of her days had been devoted to sorting and storing. She had lingered over things
that had been her mother’s, photographs of her, of the two of them together. She had
lovingly placed the framed photos throughout the house, so no matter what room she
was in, she would be able to see her.

Tony greeted her with an excited bark and ran over, his entire back end swinging with
his tail.

“Hey, buddy.” She bent and scratched behind his ears as best she could. In his ecstasy,
he proved too much of a moving target. She had learned not to worry over where the
pup was—he, too, seemed to have fallen into a pattern, splitting his time between
her, Henry and hanging around the barn with the other dogs.

“You with Henry this morning? Or did you come to see me?” He stopped wiggling and
sat, giving her an opportunity for a proper scratch, then jumped up, barked once and
made a beeline for the garage.

She followed him and saw why. Old Henry on the far side of the garage, fiddling with
a mower.

“Hi, Henry!” she called.

He didn’t hear her, so she headed over. He caught sight of her then, took off his
hat and smiled broadly. Between his original injuries and surgical scars, the smile
stretched Joker-like across his face. “Hello there, Ms. True. Pretty day for a walk.”

The first time he’d called her Logan’s first wife’s name, she’d been hurt. It had
ceased to bother her, much anyway. Henry, she’d realized, was caught somewhere between
the past and the present. “It is, but I thought I’d go for a drive today instead.”

“A drive?” His bushy eyebrows lowered. “What for?”

“I thought it was time to learn my way around.” He didn’t look convinced it was a
good idea and she patted his arm. “You and Tony have a good day.”

She started to turn away. He stopped her, his grip on her arm surprisingly firm. “You’ll
come back, won’t you?”

“Of course I will,” she said, surprised. “Why would you think I wouldn’t?”

“Sometimes they don’t.”

“Who didn’t come back, Henry?”

He dropped his hand and returned to his tinkering with the mower.

“Henry?” She touched his sleeve. “Are you talking about True?”

He lifted his dark eyes, the pain in them almost palpable. “Betsy didn’t. He came
back without her.”

“Who came back without her?”

“I don’t want to talk about him.” His eyes filled with tears. “Don’t make me.”

“It’s okay.” She patted his hand, realizing how upset he was. “I won’t. I’ll see you
later, Henry.”

He didn’t respond, just returned to his work. She walked away, making a mental note
to ask Logan who Betsy was. Whoever she was, it was obvious that Henry had cared very
much for her.

Logan had left her the keys to a battered Range Rover. She climbed in and started
it up, suddenly anxious to get off the farm. As she rolled past the barn, she caught
sight of Paul and August in what looked like a heated discussion. They stopped when
they saw her and stared. She smiled and waved, feeling suddenly as light and free
as a feather on the breeze.

She drove with no particular destination in mind. Soaking in the landscape. Country.
Farms, grand and modest; a smattering of businesses, not assembled in clusters, save
for the village itself, but simply, suddenly
there
. A veterinary clinic. A beauty parlor called Snipz and Stylz. Several plant nurseries
and a feed store. And churches. Lots of small brick or clapboard structures, some
adorned with crosses, others with simple signs.

She imagined come spring it would be beautiful, lush and green. But now, at the height
of winter, it all came off as gray and slightly dilapidated.

The sound of a siren broke her reverie. Bailey glanced in the rearview mirror and
saw cherry lights. She’d been going the speed limit, maybe a mile or two above, surely
not enough to get pulled over. An image of Hollywood’s version of a small-town Southern
cop filled her head—Buford T. Something-or-other.

She pulled onto a gravel drive and drew to a stop.

A moment later, the lawman was at her window. “License, registration, proof of insurance.”

She handed him the items. “Was I speeding, Officer?”

Instead of answering, he said, “You visiting, Miz Browne?”

“Pardon?”

“Nebraska license.”

“I just moved here.” He didn’t respond and she added, “It’s Abbott now.”

“The new Mrs. Logan Abbott.”

Her hackles rose at his tone. “Is there a new one every week?”

It was his turn to look confused. “Ma’am?”

“The way you said the ‘new’ Mrs. Abbott suggested I might be the latest in a long
and esteemed line.”

He smiled slightly. “Esteemed, ma’am. Certainly.”

Bad blood existed between Logan and this man, she realized. And whatever it was, it
ran deep. “Are you going to write me a ticket?”

“I’ll let you off with a warning. This time.” He leaned down so close she saw her
reflection in his mirrored sunglasses. “But I suggest you get that license changed.
That is, if you plan to be around awhile.”

“I do, Officer. Thank you.” If he heard the acid in her tone, he didn’t let on.

He held out her documents. She went to grab them, but he didn’t let them go. “Did
he tell you about True?”

“Excuse me?”

“I bet he only told you what he wanted you to hear.”

Angry heat stung her cheeks. “If there’s nothing else, Officer—”

“Or maybe only what
you
wanted to hear. Him being such a catch and all.”

She caught her breath, shocked. “You’re out of line, Officer.”

“You look like her.”

“Excuse me?”

“She and I were friends. Does that surprise you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He released his grip on the documents and she snatched her hand away. “You figure
it out, Mrs. Abbott. And while you’re at it, grab yourself a copy of our local paper
up at Faye’s. I think you’ll find it interesting.”

Any vestige of the easygoing, Southern good ole boy was gone. He was a cop on a mission,
with a gun and badge and every threat that went along with it.

But was that threat directed at her? Or Logan?

“What’s your name, Officer?”

He straightened. “I suggest you be careful, ma’am. Real careful.”

He was a bully, she decided. One of those cops who liked to push people around. Use
his badge to intimidate. Make himself feel powerful.

She wasn’t about to be intimidated by this small-minded, small-town cop. The chip
on his shoulder was
his
problem, not hers.

She leaned her head out the open window. “I asked your name, Officer.”

He stopped, looked back. “Billy Ray Williams. Chief of police.” He smiled and tipped
his hat again. “Have a good day, Bailey Abbott.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Bailey watched the lawman stroll back to his cruiser and climb in. A moment later,
he was going around her, lifting his hand in a wave. As if they were old friends.

Her hands were shaking. She sucked in a deep breath, working to calm herself. He hadn’t
overtly threatened her or Logan. Yet the encounter had unnerved her.

She shifted into drive, and eased back onto the road. It hadn’t been the badge and
gun, nor the way he’d gotten in her face, that bothered her. It was the animosity
he felt toward her husband. And his innuendos. That Logan was keeping secrets from
her. That she didn’t know the whole story about True.

He and True had been friends, he’d said. Almost defiantly. In challenge. But not a
challenge to her. To Logan.

“And while you’re at it, grab yourself a copy of our local paper at Faye’s. I think
you’ll find it interesting.”

Faye’s. One of two restaurants in Wholesome, a diner Logan had said served the best
biscuits and sausage gravy anywhere. Up ahead Bailey saw the sign announcing the Village
of Wholesome. She smiled to herself.
Okay, Big-Chief Billy Ray. Challenge accepted.

Bailey didn’t have far to go; Faye’s was located on the main drag, just past the town’s
only traffic light. The building—a low-slung, beige brick box, picture window dotted
with flyers—had nothing outstanding to commend it. Except the food, which the sign
in the window assured was
Real Good
. As did the nearly full parking lot, with its collection of dusty pickup trucks and
SUVs.

Bailey entered the restaurant. The bell above the door jingled her arrival and conversation
paused as every head swiveled in her direction.

Apparently, she had found the place to see and be seen in Wholesome.

“Seat yourself wherever there’s room!” the waitress called. “I’ll be with you in a
shake.”

Bailey picked her way to a small table in a far corner. Once seated, she took in the
surroundings. Homespun. Basic. Formica tabletops matched the scarred Formica floors.
On the walls were horse racing and polo memorabilia and a couple of stuffed fish.
Largemouth bass, she thought.

She breathed deeply and her mouth started to water. It smelled wonderful. Like bacon,
burgers and homemade biscuits.

As Bailey reached for one of the menus propped between the napkin holder and salt
and pepper shakers, the waitress arrived. “Hi there,” she said.

The woman looked to be in her thirties and had a handsome, weatherworn face. Not worn
in a bad way, but one that spoke of fresh air and sunshine. Her long brown hair was
pulled back into a ponytail.

“Hello.”

“Sorry about the wait. The other girl didn’t show up. Second time this week.”

“Ouch.”

“You’re telling me. You wouldn’t be looking for a job, would you?” Before Bailey could
respond, she noticed her ring and answered the question herself. “No, I guess not,
with a sparkler like that. It’s beautiful.”

Bailey glanced at it, then back up at her with a smile. “Thank you.”

“I’d thank him,” she said with a grin. “You know what you want?”

“Haven’t even looked. Are you still serving breakfast?”

“Sorry, sugar. Just lunch after eleven.”

“How about a BLT?”

“Nice compromise. Chips or fries?”

“Chips. Mayo on the side.”

“Perfect. And to drink?”

“Water. With lemon.”

“Anything else?”

“A newspaper?”

“I’ve got the
New Orleans T-P
, the
Baton Rouge Advocate
or our own little
Village Voice
.”

Bailey didn’t know what she was looking for—or even if there was anything—so she asked
for all three. A moment later, the woman set the glass of water and three papers on
the table.

As Bailey starting sifting through them, she realized how isolated from the world
she had been. She and Logan hadn’t watched television at night, she hadn’t turned
the radio on or looked at the newspaper. She hadn’t even been online other than the
occasional Facebook update or Tweet. She had been happily ensconced in her own little
bubble of bliss.

On the front page of the
Voice
she found what she suspected Billy Ray Williams had wanted her to see.

Second Woman Disappears from Wholesome

And under the picture of a twentysomething young woman with long brown hair and a
cocky smile, one word:
“Missing!”

Bailey skimmed the article. Her name was Amanda LaPier. She’d last been seen partying
at a local bar. The next day, her car was found, keys, purse and cell phone in it.
No sign of violence. As if she had been lured out by someone she knew.

Apparently, four years ago another young woman had gone missing. Trista Hook, the
M.O. nearly identical.

Bailey finished the article, then skimmed the rest of the
Village Voice
. Home sales and racing stats, theft of horse tranquilizers from a vet’s office, a
couple of fights that led to arrests at a local honky-tonk. Nothing else that jumped
out at her.

Bailey returned to the front-page article and frowned. She felt certain this was what
Billy Ray Williams had wanted her to see. But what did it have to do with her or Logan?

The waitress arrived with her sandwich and set the plate in front of her. She indicated
the paper. “Creepy, huh.”

Bailey didn’t comment and she went on. “I tell you what, I never walk to my car alone
at night.”

Village of Wholesome

Population 718

“Some people even believe there was a third woman. So much for the picture-perfect
little village. Can I get you anything else?”

Bailey looked up. “What did you say?”

“Can I get you anything else?”

“No, not that. About a third woman.”

“A sweet little gal named—”

She stopped, gaze dropping from Bailey’s face to her ring finger, then back up. “I
shouldn’t have said that. Sometimes my mouth runs away with me and well, that’s just
pure gossip. My pastor preached on it just this past—”

“Steph! Order up!”

She started to go; Bailey stopped her, remembering what Logan had said about his first
wife leaving him. “Are you talking about True Abbott?”

Her stricken expression said it all.

“Stephanie!”

“I’m sorry, I have to go.”

She pulled out her order pad and pen, wrote on it, then laid it on the table. “My
number’s on there. Call me. I’m so sorry.”

CHAPTER NINE

The cold slapped Bailey in the face as she exited Faye’s diner. She stuffed the ticket
with the waitress’s number into her jacket pocket and started toward her SUV.

Only to find Billy Ray Williams there, his cruiser blocking her vehicle, the engine
running. She’d had enough of the man and his games, and strode across the parking
lot and rapped on his window.