Shadows from the Grave (44 page)

“Incorrigible? Auto theft is ‘incorrigible,’ she says.” Jason just shook his head. “I’ll remind you of that someday, sis. So are you going to stick around these parts, or what?” he asked Gordon.

“I don’t know. I’d like to travel some, I think. Just go where the spirit leads me for a while, not have to answer to anyone. Maybe work with my hands again.” He examined said hands. “I don’t want to get too soft, which was a real danger with my job.”

Chase laughed. “You’re talking construction, right? Not boosting cars?” When they had met in college, Gordon was making ends meet by working construction on the weekends.

“Yes, construction. I’ve always had this secret desire to build a house. Who knows? Maybe I’ll get a little wanderlust out of my system, then come back here and start my own construction company.”

For a while longer, they sat around the table chatting. Eventually though, Gordon had to head back to Louisville. Chase walked him out.

“Are you going to keep your house?” he asked as they reached Gordon’s car.

“Probably not. It was just a resting place, really, after Mallory died. I think when I come back, I’ll settle here in Leroy. Think that would be okay?”

Chase smiled. “I think that would be great. Then I can watch you and Stacy dance around each other and tease you unmercifully the way you did me.”

Gordon laughed. “Yeah. You do that. Listen, what are you going to do with your condo once you get the house fixed up?”

“Rent it out. Market’s too soft to sell it right now. Why?”

“Tell you what, let me rent it. I’ll be about six weeks getting things in order, with the house and everything. You should have the house ready by then, right? I think it’d be a good solution for both of us.”

Chase nodded. “Yeah, probably. Let me think about it, you do the same, and we’ll talk soon.” He reached out a hand to Gordon. “I don’t know if I ever said it properly or not but, Gordon, I owe you one. You saved my butt, at risk to yourself. I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

Gordon clasped Chase’s hand warmly. “You want to repay me, Chase? Just be happy. Since I’ve known you, you’ve had this cloud over your head. It’s gone now. Take advantage of that.”

“I fully plan on doing just that,” Chase assured him. “Things could have been so different, but they aren’t. I won’t let this chance slip away from me.”

As Gordon departed, Chase turned back to the house. Jason, Beth and Annie were coming outside, Ethan, Hannah, and Paulo close behind. Heading in their direction, Chase smiled. The day that had started out so horribly had turned beautiful, and he wasn’t going to waste another minute of it.

~ * * * ~

All’s well that ends well, they say back in the hills. I told you at the beginning that Chase and Annie wouldn’t have an easy time of it. Thankfully, things are better for them now. I can see into Chase’s heart, and he has finally let go of the damage from the past. I’m glad, because he really deserves to be happy. So does Annie. They complement each other in ways that Chase and I never did, even if I hadn’t tried to trap him into marriage.

Unfortunately, the little town of Leroy is far from out of the crosshairs. In a few short weeks, things are going to get very hot again indeed. You just wait—I think it will prove to be the most stirred up it’s ever been.

This book couldn’t have happened without the following people–Glendon, first and foremost. You know what all you do. Love you, honey. Extra special thanks to Debora Geary, Craig Hansen, Mary Shepherd Young, Kelley Curran–beta readers extraordinaire. Bless you, bless you.

A very special thanks to Teri Garrett, who graciously allowed me to use her name for charity. I hope you like what I did with it.

To everyone at Kindleboards, for their support, kindness and friendship. It means a lot, and keeps me going some days.

Finally, a super-duper and extra-special thanks to Dr. G and the real-life Murphy. Yes, out there in this world there is a real-life kitten who needs just an extra bit of attention, and keeps his “Mom” on her toes. Thank you for sharing him with me, and letting me share him with the world.

Secrets In the Shadows
(2010)

Under the Moon's Shadow
(2010)

A self-proclaimed bibliophile, romantic suspense author T. L. Haddix has had a life-long love affair with the written word. After trying several different career routes, including medical transcription, genealogical research services and a very brief career as a sandwich artist, she finally took the plunge she had been avoiding for years and started writing. She is constantly creating, whether it is painting, drawing, designing house plans, cooking, baking, crocheting, knitting or quilting; the drive to create an intrinsic part of who she is.

A resident of northern Ohio, T. L. shares a house with her husband and their three cat children. She loves to hear from her fans. Hard at work on her next novel, she can be reached through her website at www.tlhaddix.com, at www.facebook.com/tlhaddix or at www.twitter.com/tlhaddix.

--The Official Mystery Series Of The Fashion Industry--

Laura was late.

Not so late that she’d walk into work after everyone had arrived, and it wasn’t as if she’d missed a conference call or a fitting, or anything like that. More like, conceptually late, because she usually arrived at seven thirty every morning so she could chat with her boss—winner of the CFDA award two years running and subject of more
Vogue
editorials than she could count. Prodigy. Wunderkind. Fashion icon. Jeremy St. James. Whom she loved. And who, naturally, was gay. So Laura wasn’t late for work so much as she was late for a casual conversation with a love interest incapable of loving her back.

As she got into the elevator at eight thirty on that particular Sunday morning, joining a woman with a perfectly highlighted blond ponytail and a sales guy who smelled as though he’d had an eventful Saturday night, she knew it was worth it, or at least, that it couldn’t have been helped. She couldn’t have let the girl in the pink coat just walk off the R train without being questioned, because she was either the greatest home sewer in the tri-state area, or she was in possession of a first-class knockoff.

Whichever the case, the girl needed either a job offer or an interrogation, because the pink coat in question was the best-selling, four-hundred-of-a-kind Donatella coat which, in a major flub by two well-paid, and soon to be unemployed, editors, was on the cover of both
Bazaar
and
Elle
simultaneously, two months ago, in their December issues. Thus, once the initial four hundred units sold out at Bergdorf’s and Bloomingdale’s, it became more expensive to buy the coat used than new.

But the woman, who wasn’t a second over twenty-three and not an inch over five-two, with hair dyed a little too black, a straightening job a little too thorough, and a skirt about four inches past the point of flattering, wasn’t wearing a Donatella coat. Not by a long shot. She knew because the button thread on Ms. Hipster’s jacket matched the pink of the fabric. When Laura inched closer to the little hipster, acting as if she wanted to share door-leaning privileges, she caught the unmistakable aroma of a well-loved dog and saw that the pink thread was not only specious in that it was pink, but it was also cotton permacore.

Laura knew for a fact that the rhinestone buttons on the Donatella coat were sewn on with thread that matched the silver of the button. And she knew because she and an assistant designer had chosen the thread from a rayon thread sample card. They had two shades of grey rayon twisted together to match the color depth of the metal, effectively making the thread disappear.

However, she had seen no other imperfections in the faux designer coat. The fabric was the same. The collar lay straight on her neck. The stitching was to the St. James standard. Only the button thread gave it away.

The train had stopped, and Ms. Hipster apparently thought she was just going to walk out at 31st Street with a knockoff of a Jeremy St. James coat.

Laura had followed to find out where the girl had gotten it, because whomever she bought it from was selling counterfeit merchandise, the bane of the fashion industry, the huge sucking vortex that swallowed millions and left poor patternmakers like Laura without jobs. The black market of inferior-quality goods violated every trademark, copyright, and intellectual property law put into place to protect artists and artisans.

Ms. Hipster was not just going to walk away, even if, as she approached 31st Street, Laura despaired of a way to ask the woman a polite question, a problem that didn’t rectify itself by the time she followed her to 29th Street, too far away from work just to turn back.

No, once Laura saw her walk into a Korean market on Broadway, she knew she had passed the point of no return. She was committed to discovering the origins of the pink jacket. Best case scenario, Ms. Hipster’s dog, undoubtedly a smelly, drooling thing she kept in her studio apartment in Bushwick, had chewed off the buttons, and she replaced them with whatever thread she had in her sewing kit. Worst case, she was the mastermind behind a counterfeiting ring, and Laura was putting her life in danger by coming close to her.

Laura blew into the Korean market and spotted Ms. Hipster at the coffee bar. Laura headed over there and poured herself the smallest size. It smelled stale, even for a Sunday, so Laura felt zero guilt about the wasted brew as she intentionally mismanaged the paper cup.

“Oh, geez!” Laura exclaimed, as Ms. Hipster arched her back away from Laura’s flying coffee. “I’m so sorry! Did it get anywhere?” A spot of coffee clung to the fabric hairs on the front, about to soak in. The woman had to go ballistic. Who wouldn’t? A Donatella coat cost four thousand dollars. The girl didn’t look like she could afford more than a vintage find from Goodwill.

Ms. Hipster daubed it with a napkin. “It’s all right. I think it’s mostly off.”

Mostly? She was either loaded—that was out, judging from the rest of her ensemble—or the coat was cheap. Laura held out more napkins, and they moved out of the way of the cashier line. “I think there’s a little on the button, too.” Ms. Hipster looked, but of course there was nothing. Laura continued, “If the button is stained, I saw the same ones at Harry’s. I don’t know where you’d get the thread to match, though.”

Laura waited. Ms. Hipster looked at her button, “No, it looks okay. And the thread is just pink. No big. I can buy that anywhere.” She gave a noncommittal smile and backed into the cashier line.

She didn’t have pink thread at home.

Meaning she hadn’t resewn the buttons.

Meaning the coat buttons came with pink permacore thread.

So it’s fake. Fakefakefake.

“It’s really cool, the coat,” Laura said from behind Ms. Hipster, who was counting out nickels and pennies to pay for her coffee. “Where did you get it?”

“My mom brought it back from China.” The girl spun on her vintage 1970s cowboy boots and left. She didn’t seem to know, or care, that Jeremy’s stuff was made in the U.S.A., on 40th Street for that matter, and didn’t ship to Asia. There was always the possibility that she was trying to throw Laura off the trail of a cool new store by claiming the coat came from overseas, a common trick, but if that was the case, there was no way Laura would be able to choke the source of the coat from the hipster anyway. So she just went to the office, quite a far walk from the little Korean grocery with the stale coffee.