The Secrets of Rosa Lee. Jodi Thomas

squeaky clean. The private eye he’d hired couldn’t dig up a single whisper on the widower, not even in his hometown.

      The last two folders belonged to the troublemaker, Billy Hatcher, and the ad executive, Lora Whitman. Both would probably go for money if he offered. Hatcher worked at the lumberyard and did odd jobs around town. Except for one brush with the law, he’d stayed below the radar. Lora Whitman was another story. She appeared to have lived her life in the public eye ever since she was six and had posed for her father’s car ads. When Sloan had flipped through the weekly paper’s archives, he’d seen several pictures of her. Homecoming queen, cheerleader, fund-raising for one cause then another. Her wedding picture had covered half a page.

      Sloan spread the members’ fact sheets across the bed. He only needed four to swing the committee. But which four?

      He grabbed his Stetson and headed toward the bar he had seen a few blocks away. “Time to go fishin’,” Sloan mumbled.

      Two

      Micah Parker didn’t believe in ghosts. He reminded himself of this fact as he jogged toward the edge of town, but there was something strange about the old Altman house. It drew him the way ambulance lights on a highway lured curious drivers.

      He caught himself circling past the place each night when he ran. Something must have occurred there years ago and left its impression on the very air—it was not sounds, or odd sightings, but more an emotion that settled on the passerby’s skin, thick as humidity just before a storm breaks.

      Like most of those chosen for the mayor’s committee, he couldn’t wait to go inside and have a look. And tomorrow, he’d get his chance. Reverend Milburn had talked him into another civic committee, this one to decide what to do with Rosa Lee Altman’s place. As associate minister, Micah followed orders.

      Even though a relative newcomer in town, Micah had heard the stories about the old maid who had lived to be ninety-two. She’d lost her wealth—first a section, then a block at a time until nothing had remained in her name but the house and gardens. Some said she’d never ventured beyond her gates. She had had no life outside her property, and folks said no one, not even a delivery man, had stepped beyond her porch.

      Micah studied the house as he crossed the street, his tennis shoes almost soundless. Even in the streetlight he could see that weather had sanded away almost all paint, leaving the two-story colonial a dusty brown. The same color as the dirt that sifted through everything over this open land.

      Smiling, he waved at the house. It seemed more than brick and board. Some places have personalities, he thought with a grin. If this one had a voice it would say, “Evenin’ Reverend Parker,” in a Texas drawl.

      He slowed in the darkness and stretched before turning about and heading back through town. The temperature had dropped during his run. Time to get home.

      As he stepped into the street, a movement in the gutter caught his attention. He stumbled trying to avoid a collision.

      A tiny, muddy, yellow cat, not big enough to be without its mother, curled against a pile of trash the wind had swept in the grate. Its long hair stuck out in all directions, but the little thing didn’t know enough to crawl away from the pile of discarded cups and packing paper.

      Micah leaned down. “Now, what have we here?” He lifted the shivering pile of bones and hair.

      The animal made a hissing sound but didn’t fight as he warmed it with his hands.

      “How about coming along with me, little guy?” Micah carefully tucked the kitten into his jacket pocket and turned toward home. “I’ll share the leftovers from the men’s prayer breakfast with you.”

      The animal didn’t sound any more excited about the meal than he was, but their choices were limited. Thanks to his late meeting at the church tonight, his son Logan had already eaten dinner with their neighbor, Mrs. Mac. Micah could go grocery shopping at the town’s only store and probably run into half a dozen people he knew, all of whom he’d have to talk to. Or, he could eat out alone and have everyone who passed by look as if they felt sorry for him. Or, he could finish off whatever lay wrapped in the aluminum foil the breakfast cleanup committee had insisted he take. Leftovers seemed the best choice.

      When Micah entered the back of the duplex he shared with his seven-year-old son, he lowered the kitten into a basket of dirty laundry and motioned for it to be quiet.

      The cat just stared up at him, too frightened to make a sound.

      Micah closed the utility-room door and silently moved down the hallway. Sometime during the fifty-year history of this place, someone had cut a door between the two apartments.

      He leaned his head into the other apartment and whispered, “Thanks, Mrs. Mac.”

      “You’re welcome,” she answered without turning away from her TV. “No trouble.”

      Micah closed the door connecting the apartments without bothering to lock it, then moved down the hallway to Logan’s room. Over the past three years they’d worked out a system. He helped Mrs. Mac carry in her groceries, mowed her side of the lawn and did anything her arthritis wouldn’t let her do. She watched over a sleeping Logan while Micah ran, and babysat on the rare occasions Logan couldn’t accompany Micah to a church meeting.

      Micah carefully crossed the cluttered floor of Logan’s room and knelt to pull the cover over the boy’s shoulder. He brushed sunny-blond hair away from Logan’s forehead and whispered, “We love you, son,” as if Amy were still alive and helping him raise the boy.

      He backed out of the room slowly, knowing one more day of Logan’s childhood had passed.

      A little after seven the next morning, Micah checked on his furry houseguest. After crying half the night, the kitten must have licked up all the warm milk in the chipped saucer Micah had left in the laundry basket. The tiny houseguest now lay curled up beside his oldest sweatshirt.

      “I want that shirt back,” Micah said as he poured himself coffee. He thought of moving the basket to the garage but decided it was too cold. With luck, the cat couldn’t jump out and would be fine until he came home for lunch with kitty litter.

      “I’ll stop by and get some cat food, so consider it a date for lunch.” He lifted his cup to the sleeping guest. “I promise not to try to cram any more of the church’s scrambled eggs into you.” The nuked eggs worked only slightly better than the warmed hash browns. Last night Micah had ended up making a sandwich out of a leftover biscuit and sausage. “I’ve no doubt you’re a Baptist. Any self-respecting Methodist would have downed the eggs.”

      “Who you talking to, Pop?”

      Micah smiled. His son had turned a corner a month ago—calling him Daddy was now too babyish.

      Lifting the kitten, Micah faced his son. Logan, thin, blond and full of energy, was a miniature of himself except for one thing. The eyes. The boy had Amy’s green eyes. And right now they danced with excitement.

      “Where’d it come from? Can we keep it? What’s its name? Is it a boy or a girl?”

      Micah laughed. “Slow down, partner.” He laid the kitten in his son’s lap. “I found it last night when I was running. I don’t think Mrs. Mac allows pets, but she’ll probably let us keep it for a few days until we fatten it up a little and find it a home. I don’t know if it’s a boy or girl cat, but I do know its name.”

      Logan wasn’t listening. He sat cross-legged on the floor with the cat in his lap.

      Micah felt a tug at his heart. A boy should have pets, but after Amy had died, Micah had all he could handle taking care of Logan.

      Standing, Micah washed his hands and poured Logan’s Cheerios, then sliced a banana into another bowl. “I thought we’d call him Baptist—you know, after John the Baptist.”

      Logan nodded.

      “Better wash your hands and eat, son. Jimmy’s mom will be here soon.”