Page 44 of Luck of the Devil

She pointed to Malcolm’s car. “Seen him around, but I don’t think he’s here for your mother, now is he?” A smug look tipped up her lips.

“No, I suppose he’s not,” I admitted. I wasn’t surprised she’d noticed his presence. I only hoped she didn’t realize who he was.

“Got yourself a boyfriend, huh?” Her eyes twinkled. “Not bad lookin’, although I bet your mother didn’t approve. Too many tattoos.”

How had she seen Malcolm’s tattoos? I was pretty sure he’d always had a jacket or long sleeves on. Although some did peek above his shirt collars. But she must have been really looking at him to notice those. I decided not to correct her about our relationship, and instead said, “My mother hadn’t met him yet.”

She nodded, her smug look back. “Oh, I figured that, considering he usually came around late or when she was gone.”

I needed to steer this conversation away from Malcolm. “Back to my mother and any new acquaintances she might have made…”

“That woman was the only one.”

“Did you notify the sheriff about your concerns?”

“Heck no,” she scoffed and waved a hand dismissively. “That wasn’t any of my business. Sarah Jane can come and go with whoever she pleases.” I started to ask another question, but she cut me off. “Look, I don’t know what your mother was up to,” Mrs. Comstock said curtly, “But I’m sure it had something to do with your father. In fact”—a delighted gleam filled her eyes—“I half wondered if the woman was your father’s mistress.”

“Did my father have a mistress?”

“Beats me,” she said with a laugh. “But if she was his mistress, maybe she drove Sarah Jane off the bridge. Or,” she added, looking even more gleeful, “maybe Sarah Jane invited her over and planned to kill her and leave town.”

I was momentarily stunned. Was any part of that possible?

Becky Comstock could see I wasn’t totally convinced. “Your mother wasn’t one to sit still and let someone walk all over her. There’s no way she would just let your father up and divorce her without some kind of fight or pay back, now would she? I’m sure she had some tricks up her sleeve to either get him back to make him pay.”

None of that had been on my radar, but there was no denying my mother had possessed a vindictive streak. But she’d seemed too beaten down to be plotting my father’s—or anyone else’s—demise. But Mrs. Comstock seemed to be waiting for a response, and I found myself saying, “If she was up to something, I didn’t know anything about it.”

She released a barky laugh. “Well, I suspect you’d be the last person she’d tell. She never really liked you much, did she?”

I was surprised at the sudden stinging in my eyes.

Her expression softened. “Oh, Harper, it was no secret that your sister was the favorite. We all worried about you after Andi died.”

“We?” I forced out.

“The neighbors. We were worried your mother would blame you and treat you like crap.”

“She did,” I said, feeling numb. “She very much blamed me. You were right to worry.” They may have worried, but not a single one had invited me into their homes to give me a reprieve. Or asked how I was doing. Or told my mother to be grateful she hadn’t lost both daughters.

“We thought so,” she said, with a smug nod. “Especially after you left for college and rarely came back.” She lowered her voice. “Not that I blame you.”

I wasn’t sure what else to ask her, and I sure wasn’t going to keep discussing my dysfunctional relationship with my mother, although I guess I’d invited the discussion when I’d admitted their concerns were justified. “Thank you for your help.”

“Any time,” she said, her posture softening. Maybe she thought she’d gone too far. “Say, if you like, I can go through my security video and get some images of the woman. If nothin’ else, you can ask your dad if she’s his lover.” She shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe she’s missing too?”

I shot a glance to the doorbell, confirming she had a regular non-video doorbell.

She laughed. “That’s too obvious. I have it pointing out my spare bedroom window.” She pointed up, and sure enough, I could see the tiny lens in the bottom corner of a window on the second floor.

“Yeah,” I said. “That would be great.”

She pulled her phone out of her pocket. “Give me your number, and I’ll send the video to you.”

“Thanks,” I said, still in shock she had video. If we could identify the woman, this might be easier to solve than I’d expected. “I’d really appreciate that.”

“Yeah, sure.” She cringed as though suddenly embarrassed. “Say, sorry if I was a bit abrupt when I answered the door. I wasn’t sure about you—with all the rumors and such—but it’s obvious you’re nothing like your mother. Then again, you never were.”

Then she turned around and headed back into the house, shutting the door behind her. I stood on her doorstep with more answers than I’d bargained for and a heart I hadn’t realized could still break.