Silver River Secrets. Linda Hope Lee

The smell of wax and varnish from the first floor’s furniture store drifted along the hallway. He took the back stairs to the second floor where the offices of Dalton Properties were located. His grandfather’s middle-aged administrative assistant, Sheila Cobb, sat at her desk.

      “Morning, Sheila.”

      “Glad you’re here, Rory. He’s been wondering.” She tipped her head toward the door to A.J.’s office just as it opened and his grandfather stepped out.

      At seventy, Alfred James Dalton was as fit and trim as he’d been in his younger years, thanks in part to heredity, but also to regular rounds of golf and visits to the local gym.

      A.J. spread his feet apart and propped his hands on his hips. “About time you got here.”

      Rory glanced at his wristwatch. “I know, I’m a little late, but with good reason—”

      “Never mind. Sheila put some new proposals on your desk. Look ’em over, and then we’ll talk.”

      “I’d just as soon talk now—about something else.”

      A.J. raised his eyebrows. “Hmm, all right. I’ve got half an hour until my two o’clock arrives. Come on in.”

      Once in his office, A.J. pointed to a straight chair. “Have a seat.”

      Rory sat, while A.J. rounded his desk and sank into a black leather chair that always made Rory think of a throne. Unable to find a chair locally that suited him, A.J. had ordered this one over the internet. When it had arrived, the delivery guys had one heckuva time getting it up the narrow stairs. But they succeeded, and there it was, and A.J. fit into it as though it were made especially for him.

      A.J. opened a file folder on his desk and idly rifled the papers inside. “So, what’s on your mind?” he said without looking up.

      “I want to buy the Whitfield property.”

      A.J. jerked to attention. “Yeah? You know I’ve tried for years to get Remy to sell, and she’s flatly refused. What makes you think you can change her mind?”

      “I’m betting she needs the money, now that she’s living at Riverview. That place doesn’t come cheap.”

      “Maybe Lacey is helping out.”

      “Maybe. Still—”

      A.J. rubbed his jaw. “Okay, let’s say you get her to sell. What do you see happening to the property?”

      “First thing is tear down the house. It’s an eyesore, and I’m sick of it. Always reminding me—”

      “You think tearing it down will erase your memory of what happened there?”

      “It’ll go a long way to helping.”

      A.J. closed the file folder and leaned forward. “And then what? A subdivision is what I see. Ought to be enough land for fifty or sixty houses.”

      Rory shrugged. “Getting rid of the house is first and foremost. You hate the sight of that place as much as I do.”

      “I’ll agree with that.”

      His voice cracked, and his gaze strayed to the framed photo on his desk, a picture of him with his son, Alfred James Dalton Jr., better known as “Al Jr.” Their arms slung over each other’s shoulders, big grins on their faces, they stood in front of the Ross Building, one of their many projects.

      “So, what do you think?” Rory asked.

      “I need to know more. You plan to use Lacey to get to Remy? Heard you two were cozying up at Sophie and Hugh’s party.”

      Rory clenched his jaw. “We weren’t ‘cozying up.’ We happened to find ourselves face-to-face and exchanged a few words, that’s all. As for using Lacey, ten years ago, you told me I couldn’t have anything more to do with her.”

      “That was then. This is now. That property has sat there in a time warp, and I agree with you that enough is enough. You get it and you’ll have a big bonus.”

      “All right—”

      “Wait a minute. I’m not letting you completely off the hook.”

      Rory narrowed his eyes. “What?”

      A.J. pointed a forefinger. “I need you to take more responsibility around here. This business will be yours someday, and you need to know how to run it. Stuart knows more about our operation than you do.”

      Rory shook his head. They’d had this discussion before, many times. “I’m giving as much here as I can. I have my own business to run—”

      A.J.’s mouth turned down. “Oh, yes. Cars again. Collecting ’em isn’t enough. You have to tinker with them, too.”

      Rory pushed to the edge of his chair. “If we’re done here—”

      A.J. put out a staying hand. “Not quite. Don’t forget that I own that prime piece of property Dalton’s Auto Repair sits on.”

      “So?”

      “So Silver River could use another motel.”

      “Go ahead and sell the property.” Rory made a dismissive wave. “I can always relocate.”

      “You could if you had the money. But you don’t. It’s all tied up in cars.”

      Rory pressed his lips together. “Okay, we are done here.” He stood and strode to the door.

      “Keep in mind what I said.”

      “I’m sure you’ll be reminding me again,” Rory said as he went out the door. And again, and again.

      “Get back to me ASAP about those proposals,” A.J. called after him.

      * * *

      IN HIS OFFICE, Rory hung his jacket on the coatrack and paused to look out the adjacent window. Instead of facing the street, like his grandfather’s office, Rory’s office looked out on the back parking lot. He didn’t care. Not even the best view in the world could make him want to be there.

      His gaze landed on his Dodge, and a smile touched his lips. That was one fine car. Then he saw A.J.’s shiny new BMW, and his mouth thinned. No, his grandfather would never understand or share his love of the classics.

      He turned away and crossed the room to his desk. His office had no personal touches. No photos, no certificates on the wall, nothing to identify him as the occupant. He hadn’t put down roots here, and he never would.

      A.J. knew how to play the guilt game, though, making him think he should be grateful for the opportunity to take his father’s place in the company. If his father were still alive, Rory had no doubt the situation would be different. His father had understood Rory’s need to work with his hands, to create something. He was proud of Rory’s talent and never passed up an opportunity to brag about him.

      But Al Jr. wasn’t alive. He was dead. Shot in the back on that fateful day when he went to see Norella Morgan.

      Guilt gave way to anger. Anger at Rick Morgan, the hothead who pulled the trigger. And yet at the time, he’d wanted to stand by Lacey. He’d loved her, and planned to marry her.

      But that was all over now.

      Now, what he wanted most of all was to get rid of that house. Somehow, he’d find a way. Pushing aside his troubled thoughts, he sank into his desk chair. For a moment he only stared at the file folder lying there. Then he took a deep breath, opened the file and began reading.

      * * *

      “I VISITED THE graves at Restlawn this morning,” Lacey told Gram while they enjoyed a cup of tea on her patio. The afternoon sun had cleared the mountains and shone brightly from a cloudless sky. A brisk breeze swayed the cottonwood trees lining the riverbank. Still, the air was hot, even in the patio’s shade.

      Gram smiled. “That was nice of you,