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“ALL THE RIVERS RUN INTO THE SEA; YET THE SEA IS NOT FULL;UNTO THE PLACE FROM WHENCE THE RIVERS COME, THITHER THEY RETURN AGAIN.”—ECCLESIASTES 1:7

I t took Sydney a good four and a half hours to get from the sawmill to Mrs. Crawford’s house. She’d left work at 10:30 to give herself plenty of time. Sean had stopped her on her way out the door and asked where she was going. She was still upset about the kiln ordeal and told him in no uncertain terms that it was none of his business.

“I don’t work on an hourly basis. You and I both know I can come and go as I please.”

“Take it easy, Syd. I was just wondering if you wanted to go jogging with me this afternoon.”

How could he stand there and act like none of the events from the day before had taken place? “No thanks. I have an appointment.”

Sydney reached for her directions as she turned into the driveway. She compared the number on the mailbox to the one on her paper: 315 Preston Way. She was at the right place. The directions she’d gotten on the Internet had led her straight here without any difficulty. Her eyes took in the stately Tudor home with its carpeted lawn and majestic oak trees. The front bushes, shaped in perfect squares, looked like they’d been given a severe haircut. She walked up the brick path leading to the door. The sound of her high heels clicking on the bricks reminded her of Judith, and she wondered what her aunt would think about her decision to investigate Avery’s death—not too highly of it, she would imagine.

She stopped and took a deep breath before straightening her tan skirt. She had chosen her attire, a skirt and matching soft beige blouse, in the hope that the tailored lines and subtle colors would give her an air of sophistication. Her hair was pinned up in a neat bun, making her look older than twenty-six. She summoned the courage to ring the doorbell and smoothed down her hair.

A woman opened the door.

“Mrs. Crawford?”

“No, I’m the housekeeper.” She motioned. “Come this way.”

When Sydney entered the foyer, her love for wood drew her attention to the detailed parquet floors. A portrait of a man dressed in a suit hung on one wall, and Sydney guessed it might be the face of a young Judge Crawford staring back at her. She followed the woman down a hall where tasteful rugs and antique furniture pieces were expertly positioned. The housekeeper stopped in front of a closed door and knocked. Sydney’s knees went weak when she heard the commanding voice answer from within.

The first thing she saw was an older woman sitting in front of a large bay window. One afghan covered her knees and another wrapped around her shoulders. A book rested on her lap.

Mrs. Crawford was an imposing figure with her silver hair and black eyes. Even though she was sitting down, Sydney could tell that her height was an even match for her big-boned frame. She removed her reading glasses and put her book on a nearby table. As the two eyed each other, Sydney felt that the older woman was stripping her bare.

“Have a seat,” Mrs. Crawford said. It was more of a command than a suggestion.

“I appreciate your seeing me. As I told you on the phone, I believe there’s a connection between the death of your husband and my father.”

“Go on.”

Sydney pulled the newspaper articles from her bag and handed them to Mrs. Crawford. She reached for her glasses and began examining the articles.

“My father’s name was Avery McClain. Does that name sound familiar to you?”

Mrs. Crawford looked thoughtful then shook her head. “No.”

Sydney rushed on. “My father, Avery, kept a journal. He recorded that he had an appointment with Henry on March 25 th .”

Until now, Mrs. Crawford had been looking over the articles while Sydney was speaking. Those black eyes looked up, and Sydney detected a hint of frustration in them. “Was Henry the only name your father wrote? Wasn’t there a last name?”

Sydney’s pulse jumped up a notch. She’d anticipated this question. “I know this probably sounds strange to you, but I feel sure that it was your husband that my father had intended to meet. I just learned of my father’s journal a short while ago. Otherwise I would’ve contacted you sooner.”

Mrs. Crawford’s face was unreadable. She seemed to be weighing Sydney’s words. “What else makes you think there was a connection between Henry’s death and your father?”

Sydney told her about the sawmill and how she thought Avery had stumbled upon some sort of illegal activity. The woman looked unconvinced. “Stoney Creek and Glendale are neighboring towns. Two men died in an explosion on the same day. And Avery had an appointment with—well, I believe with your husband on that same evening they both were killed. Don’t you find any of this odd?”

Mrs. Crawford’s eyes grew distant. “Henry and I had a rocky relationship. We were trying to patch things up.” Her voice became husky. “He called me just before he left the office that evening to cancel our dinner reservation. I could tell he was anxious to get off the phone, and this made me angry. He said he had to get to an appointment.”

Déjà vu hit Sydney. Avery said almost those exact words.

“Henry seemed almost feverish with excitement. He said he thought it might be the big break he’d been looking for.”

“I don’t understand. Your husband was a judge, not a detective.”

“I didn’t understand it myself. Henry was a maverick of a sort who thought it was his duty to expose corruption on any score. He was always delving into things—things that he had no business being in.” She shook her head and looked directly at Sydney. “I’ve always thought that’s what got him killed.”

Sydney leaned forward in her chair. “Did he tell you who he was meeting?”

“No.”

Sydney nodded. She felt like she’d been taken up on the highest point of a roller coaster and then dropped. “Did they ever find out who killed Judge Crawford?”

“No, they never did.” She shrugged. “Henry had many enemies.” She turned and looked out the window. “I didn’t believe Henry when he told me he had an appointment.” She bit her lip then her voice faltered. “I—I was afraid he was meeting another woman.” When she turned to face Sydney, her eyes were moist. “If what you say is true, then Henry was telling me the truth. All these years …” Her voice trailed off.

“Mrs. Crawford, are you all right?”

The woman didn’t answer.

Sydney felt a touch on her shoulder. She turned to see the housekeeper. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

Sydney stood and sighed. She walked over and retrieved the articles from Mrs. Crawford’s lap. “Yes, I believe you’re right.”

Conflicting emotions churned inside Sydney during her drive back to Stoney Creek. The unanswered questions were mounting. Her whole theory—her reason for moving to Stoney Creek—everything hinged on if. If Avery and Judge Crawford were planning on meeting, then Avery could have been the big break that Judge Crawford had mentioned to his wife. She had hoped that Mrs. Crawford would give her some concrete information that would help her link Avery and Judge Crawford’s death. It was a pit of snarling questions that’s bottom was growing more fathomless by the day. All she’d really gained from her visit was a splitting headache.

There was still Cecil Prichard. She’d have to find a way to get down to the basement to see his employment file. The basement door was always locked, but Sydney knew that Barb kept the keys in her desk. The ringing of her cell phone startled her. She reached to answer it and instantly recognized Kendall’s hesitant voice.

“Sydney?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been tryin’ to reach you. You haven’t returned any of my calls.”

Sydney kept her voice impersonal. “Yeah, it’s been a crazy week.”

“I need to talk to you. I’m comin’ over.”

“Kendall, it’s not a good time. Besides, I’m not at home right now.” There was a long pause. “I don’t think this is a good idea. We’re just too different.”

“At least let me try to explain.”

She winced. Was it hurt or desperation she detected in his tone? A part of her wanted to relent just to soothe him. He seemed to sense that she was wavering. “Five minutes of your time is all I ask.”

“Okay. I’m headed that way. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

Kendall was waiting when she pulled into her driveway. They walked up to her front door in awkward silence. She was too drained to make polite conversation. Kendall was the one who precipitated their meeting. It was his turn to make the first move.

“Have a seat.” She walked past him to put down her purse.

Kendall sat on the sofa and began drumming his fingers on his thighs. She sat in the oversized chair across from him and waited for him to speak.

He cleared his throat. “Last weekend was a big mistake.”

That was an understatement.

“I should’ve never taken you to a cockfight.”

Never taken her? What about him? She couldn’t understand why he would want to go to such a vile place. “I appreciate your coming here to apologize, Kendall. I really do. It’s like I told you on the phone. The idea of you and me is great.” She paused, searching for the right words to express her feelings. “But in reality—we’re just too different.”

“I didn’t come here to apologize.”

Her mouth dropped. “What?”

“I came to make you understand where I’m comin’ from.”

Her eyes narrowed. That’s what this was about?

He looked her square in the face, his brown eyes pleading with hers. “I, um, I was ten years old the first time Daddy took me to a cockfight. I can imagine how it must’ve looked to someone who’d never seen anything like that before.”

Sydney lowered her head and massaged her pounding temples. An image of the boy eating the hotdog flashed in her mind.

Kendall stood and came across the room and knelt beside her chair. He reached for her hand and looked right in her eyes. “I never meant to upset you.”

A weak laugh escaped her throat. “Well, it wasn’t like you intended for me to go. I kind of forced you into it.”

He brushed a strand of hair from her face. His hand cupped the curve of her cheek and lingered there for a moment. She smiled. It had the magical effect of smoothing Kendall’s features, melting the tension from his face.

“Just promise me that you’ll never take me to that place again.” She shuddered. “I’ve seen enough blood and guts to last a lifetime.”

His hand left her face and went over his heart. “I promise.” He smiled that slow smile that sent a spark of warmth over her. She thought—hoped that he would kiss her, but instead, he stood and rubbed his hands together. “All this talk about blood and guts is making me hungry. What do you say we go get a burger?”

She laughed. “Oh Kendall, you’re a monster.”