Page 31 of Trace of Doubt
“Know what?” Amy-Jo twirled a strand of mango-colored hair around her finger. “The celebration will set you up as a local artist, and you’d also have money in your pocket.”
“Self-confidence and respect would go a long way,” I said.
“You can—”
Officer Hughes marched into the café and headed straight toward us. “Shelby Pearce, where were you between the hours of six and seven this morning?”
Amy-Jo wrapped her arm around my waist. “Right here, Randy. Shelby arrived for work at 5:45 and has been here ever since.”
He eyed me as though I were sewage. “You need Amy-Jo to do your talking?”
“No, sir.” I dug my fingers into my palms. “Just like she told you, I’ve been here since 5:45.”
“Your work hours don’t start until seven.”
“Amy-Jo changed them right from the start. Why?”
“Edie called me, said she heard someone messing with her SUV. She grabbed her rifle and chased ’em off.”
“And you assumed it was me?”
“Edie had no problems until you came to town. If it wasn’t you, then I bet you know who’s responsible.”
Officer Hughes reminded me of a couple of ominous prison guards. “Did she see anybody?”
“Nah.”
“Now you can take your investigation in another direction.” I lifted my chin.
The bells over the café door jingled. “We have customers.” Amy-Jo motioned to the door. “Shelby, you have work to do.” She turned to Officer Hughes. “Unless you’re ordering breakfast, I suggest you leave and stop harassing my employee.”
His neck and face flamed red. “A little time.” He leaned close to me. “That’s all you got. Better make the best of it until I find the evidence to lock you up or run you off.” Randy stomped out the door.
“He’s always been this way,” Amy-Jo whispered. “Never understood why when he and Edie’s parents were kind people.”
I questioned whether police work allowed him to reinforce his bad habits, but I chose not to voice it. “He must be strangely wired.”
“Edie told me he’s been a bully since grade school. Randy’s ways are like a spray bottle of meanness. Somebody has to stop him because he’s getting worse.”
21
My parole stipulated counseling, and I despised it. My personal life added notches to the lies of my past, present, and future. After work, I slowly pedaled to the church office for the first counseling session with Pastor Emory. I sat across the desk from him and Mrs. Emory, wishing I were somewhere else.
Pastor Emory’s jeans and T-shirt topped with a tan sports jacket gave him an average person look—friendly and approachable. His brown hair held a few strands of gray, and he styled it a bit longer than most men. Mrs. Emory reminded me of a pit bull in black pants. She scooted a chair beside him as though she expected the worst from me. Might not hurt if I offered her some of the grace I craved from others. She did have a flawless olive complexion and large green eyes. Seemed like my mistrust for too many people caused me to judge them. Goodness, I didn’t even know the woman. After all, Mrs. Emory’s presence ensured his protection against gossip and slander, a precaution I respected.
I pushed away my lousy frame of mind and studied the pristine office, containing overflowing bookcases, family photos, and reflections of his faith.
“I appreciate you and Mrs. Emory conducting the counseling.”
He leaned back in his chair. “We’re glad to help.”
Dare I mention his check? Did his wife know about his generosity? The idea of coming between a pastor and his wife sounded deplorable, but I feared the damage had already occurred.
“Thank you for the funds to finance my small business. I’ll pay you back in installments, beginning at our next counseling session, around seventy dollars.”
“I’m not worried about repayment. The money was a gift to help you get started.”
“I think returning the money as soon as possible is commendable.” Mrs. Emory squared her shoulders. She’d be an attractive brunette if she would smile. “The gesture speaks well for rebuilding your reputation and future.”
