Dead Giveaway. Brenda Novak

patching a leaky roof. I’ll eat with him, then catch up with you later.”

      “What article are you writing?” he asked. Whatever it was, Clay hoped it wasn’t about him. One week, his stepsister had published a piece on the cars he restored in his barn and the fact that he’d recently sold a 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air for $52,000 and had a client waiting for his 1960 Jaguar XJ6 at a much higher price. Another week she’d written about the way he managed “a large, successful farm” all on his own, as if there’d never been a better farmer. But the worst was when she’d put him in her Singles section and referred to him as “appealing to women” and possessing an “elusive, mysterious allure.” Suspicions being what they were, he already drew enough attention when he walked into a room. He didn’t need her training the spotlight on him.

      But, according to Madeline, she sold more papers when she included an article about him, so he didn’t complain. He figured it wouldn’t kill him to occasionally boost her circulation.

      Still, he cringed at her next words.

      “After the thing with Beth Ann, I’d like to do one on what causes a woman to make false claims against the man she loves.”

      “When?”

      “In a few weeks.”

      Hoping she’d forget by then, he picked up his wallet and keys. “What are you working on now?”

      “A series of articles on Allie.”

      “Will they run in the Singles section?”

      “No, this is front page stuff. I’m writing about some of the murders she solved while she was working in Chicago.”

      “Sounds interesting.”

      “It is. In one case, she found the guilty party because of the stitching on the bedsheet that was wrapped around the victim’s body.”

      “The stitching?” he repeated.

      “Yeah. I guess she could tell that the sheet wasn’t the type typically purchased for home use. So she contacted the big commercial cleaners who wash linens for hotel chains in the area and, sure enough, each hotel has different-colored stitching to designate which sheets belong where.”

      “How did that lead her to the killer?” he asked.

      “You can read the details when the article comes out. It was pretty darn smart of her. But, basically, she traced the sheet to a major downtown hotel and one of their employees.”

      “Great,” Clay said. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to read the article. He was worried enough already.

      “Allie?”

      Her father’s voice intruded on the Disney movie she was watching with Whitney. Picking up the remote, she muted the sound so Dale wouldn’t have to yell quite as loudly. “What?” she called back.

      “Telephone!”

      Allie hadn’t heard it ring. She’d been dozing. She was off work for the weekend, which meant she could sleep through the night. But she was having trouble staying awake until bedtime. “Coming!”

      She turned up the volume again, leaving Belle singing to the Beast as she walked into the adjoining room—her father’s den. It took a moment to find the phone amid the clutter on his desk. “Hello?”

      “Allie?”

      “Yes?”

      “It’s Madeline.”

      Allie sank into her father’s leather chair. She’d been expecting this call. “How are you?”

      “Good. And you?”

      “Hanging in there.”

      “Glad to hear it. I have the Bible you were asking about. I’ve pored over every single word and I can’t find anything that could be called a clue. But I’d be happy to let you see it.”

      “A fresh pair of eyes might help. I’m not making quick progress on your father’s case, but I am working on it. It takes a while to go through so much material, especially when I’m trying to note every detail.”

      “I understand. I’m grateful you’re being so thorough. You’ll uncover the missing piece. I’m sure of it.”

      Allie pitied the hope in Madeline’s voice. Maddy had waited nineteen years to find out what had happened to her father and was still waiting. Allie couldn’t imagine how difficult that must be. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll try.”

      “If anyone can help me, you can.”

      Allie prayed that Madeline’s confidence wasn’t misplaced. For every case she’d solved, there were at least five she’d been unable to break. That was the nature of the business. She’d mentioned those statistics when she’d granted Madeline the interview for the paper, had talked about evidence that was often too degraded to use and key witnesses who’d died or could no longer remember what they’d seen or heard. But Madeline had focused on Allie’s successes. Apparently Madeline’s five-part series would summarize some of her toughest cases, but only those that had a happy ending.

      Maybe Madeline needed to tell those stories to bolster her faith that she’d eventually find the resolution she sought.

      “I’ll do my best,” she said again.

      “I know you will. Anyway, I have another question for you.”

      Allie rolled closer to her father’s desk and glanced idly through his Rolodex. “What’s up?”

      “Are you working tonight?”

      “No, why?” She stopped at the number for a Corinth florist written in her father’s hand. She’d never known him to order flowers. He was too practical. Had someone died? No one close to them. And if it was a professional acquaintance, her father would’ve handled it at the station…

      “I was hoping you might be interested in going out dancing or playing pool tonight.”

      As she considered Madeline’s invitation, Allie continued to flip through the small cards. She liked Madeline a lot and ordinarily would’ve jumped at the chance to go out with her. They’d sometimes hung out when they were kids. And although her two best friends from high school had married and moved away shortly after she did, there were other people she remembered and wanted to see. So far, though, she’d been too busy moving, getting Whitney started in a new school and becoming familiar with her job.

      But she was so tired. “I would if I could keep my eyes open,” she said, covering a yawn. “I’m still getting used to working graveyard.”

      “Really?” Madeline seemed genuinely disappointed. “Clay was hoping you could make it.”

      “Clay?” she repeated, nearly choking on the name.

      “He called me a few minutes ago and asked me to invite you.”

      Allie’s jaw dropped as she immediately conjured up an image of Clay—the image in the picture beneath her mattress. “Why would your brother want me there?”

      “He said he’d like to get to know you, and maybe talk about Dad.”

      Dad…Madeline had said that as if Clay called Barker “Dad,” but he didn’t. At least not in front of Allie. Did he play it differently when he was with Madeline?

      It’d be interesting to watch the two of them together, Allie thought, when they were relaxed and didn’t feel they were under scrutiny. The way they interacted might tell her something about the case, certainly more than Clay intended to divulge.

      “If he’s ready to share, I guess I’d better not miss out,” she said, reversing her earlier decision. “He’s not usually so open.”

      “Not to police officers in general, but that’s because they’re almost always prejudiced against him,” Madeline said,