“Okay.” He followed her inside and, a moment later, the familiarity of the house seemed to enfold him in a warm embrace.
Kennedy stood in his office at the bank and studied the large painting of Raymond Milton that hung on his wall. As a child, Kennedy’s father, Otis Archer, had lived in the neighboring town of Iuka in a home with a dirt floor. He’d had a widowed mother and ten siblings. He hadn’t graduated from high school because he’d had to run the cotton farm on which his family lived—and he’d had to work at the gas station in town when he wasn’t on the farm. With no money for college, the prospects for improving his situation were few. Yet he’d managed to convince Raymond Milton, who’d made a fortune in trucking when Iuka was the most important shipping point on the Mobile and Ohio Railroads, that he had the capacity to make it big. Milton lent him a little seed money and, when he was only twenty-five, Otis had started Stillwater Trust Bank and Loan.
By thirty, Otis had made his first million and won the heart of Milton’s youngest daughter, Camille, who’d married him shortly after. At forty, Kennedy’s father had become mayor of Stillwater and, when Grandpa Milton died the year Kennedy was born, Otis inherited another million.
Otis Archer had gone from being a poor, uneducated boy to the most important man in Stillwater. He’d built quite a legacy.
His secretary buzzed, but Kennedy didn’t respond. After the call he’d just had from the police chief, he knew it would be Joe. Besides the fact that he didn’t want to talk to his friend, he had an off-site meeting and needed to leave so he wouldn’t be late. But something about his grandfather’s portrait held him fast. Although the town wasn’t as sophisticated as a lot of other places, Kennedy loved Stillwater. He thought he’d make a good mayor. He’d certainly been groomed for the job, was comfortable with the path that lay ahead. But he wasn’t ready to see his father’s memorial picture hanging next to his grandfather’s. It was too soon after Raelynn’s death to say goodbye to another member of his family.
“I told her your car was still in the lot.”
Kennedy turned as Joe Vincelli barged into his office. “What a surprise to see you.”
Joe didn’t pick up on the sarcasm in his voice. “Why didn’t you answer when Lilly buzzed?”
“I was preoccupied.”
Joe’s eyebrows shot up; apparently he considered that a pretty lame excuse. But then, no one else knew about the cancer slowly destroying Otis’s body. Neither Kennedy nor his parents wanted word to get out. The bank’s stock would plummet once investors realized that the chairman of the board probably wouldn’t live through Christmas. And Kennedy wasn’t sure he could take the pity he’d receive.
He wasn’t sure how they’d keep his father’s condition a secret, when Otis started chemotherapy next month. But for the good of the bank and its employees—and for the sake of preserving the privacy he and his mother both prized—he knew they’d try.
“What’s up?” he asked as though he hadn’t already heard.
“I want McCormick to reopen my uncle’s case.”
Kennedy looked at his friend, wondering why, after so many years of letting the case grow cold, Joe was so keen on another investigation. Sure, Barker was a member of his family. But Joe had been thirteen when the reverend went missing. And he’d never pressed particularly hard for a resolution before. “Chief McCormick called me a few minutes ago to say you’d been in,” he admitted.
“He told me he couldn’t reopen the case without a reason,” Joe said, slouching into a seat. “But I know if you’ll put a little pressure on him, he’ll do it.”
“What good would it do to reopen the case?” Kennedy asked.
“Maybe we’d find something this time.”
“And maybe we wouldn’t.”
“Come on, Kennedy. We all know Clay or Irene killed my uncle. It’s time to prove it. And think what a great running platform it would make for you. Vicki Nibley wouldn’t have a prayer if you were responsible for figuring out what went on at the farm that night.”
Kennedy moved back to his desk and sat on the corner. When they were twelve and Joe’s father had taken them camping, Kennedy had slipped on a slick rock and fallen into the Yocona River. It was barely dawn. Joe’s father was still sleeping, and there was no time to get him. It was Joe who’d jumped in to save Kennedy from the brutal current that had swept him under the ledge of a second massive rock. He’d nearly forfeited his own life in the process.
Kennedy owed Joe a lot, but this wasn’t right. “I’m not worried about the mayoral seat,” he said. “If I lose, I have enough work here at the bank to keep me busy.”
“What are you talking about? You’ve dreamed of filling your father’s shoes for years.”
“It won’t destroy my life if I don’t take public office.”
“Don’t you want to know what happened to my uncle?”
Kennedy was curious. Everyone was. Grace’s sudden return had started tongues wagging all over again. Some people said they saw the reverend’s car pull into his own drive that night so long ago; others said they saw him heading out of town the opposite way. According to Kennedy’s conversation with McCormick a few minutes earlier, one woman had even come forward to say she’d seen the reverend in a mall in Jackson only a few months ago. Most people, however, pointed fingers at Irene or Clay. Some claimed Grace had killed him, although she was just a young teenager at the time. Only Madeline, who was gone the night everything happened, was free from accusation.
Kennedy had a few suspicions of his own—but, like everyone else, he had no proof. And he felt the gossip was getting out of hand. He was more intrigued by the kind of person Grace had become than what’d happened to the reverend. There was something tragic about her, something fragile and vulnerable despite the tough exterior she tried to show the world. The contrast between her beauty and the darkness of her past fascinated him.
He’d lain awake last night marveling at what she’d been able to accomplish after leaving Stillwater with only a high school diploma—and remembering what he’d seen in the window.
“Of course I’d like to know,” he said. “But not badly enough to make the Montgomerys miserable unless we have more to go on.”
Joe stretched out his long legs. “Then do it for me.”