Page 65 of Secrets Along the Shore (Beach Read Thrillers #1)

CHAPTER

TEN

Tasha rushes me out of the office when she realizes it’s already well past four o’clock. She’s aware of my dinner plans with James’s family and refuses to let me sacrifice another personal engagement on the Kurt Fogerty altar.

“I think we’re done here until we get more information, anyway. You staying is overkill. Go see James.”

She’s right. We’ve probably done as much as we can without the coroner’s report and whatever we can glean from talking to people, to try to pin down how Kamden crossed paths with a serial killer.

In the meantime, I have a fiancé waiting for me.

I go home long enough to shower, change, and feed Bilbo.

Then I race off to the Riverview Hotel, the only hotel in town.

It’s uptown, same as my house, but on the opposite side of the plateau.

Still, it only takes eight minutes to get there.

I pull up to the covered roundabout, and the valet is at my door before I can step out of my Jeep.

I hand him my keys, and he steps aside to allow me to pass.

“Enjoy your evening, Ms. Walsh.”

I’m used to the staff knowing my name now, but initially it caught me off guard.

The first time it happened, I asked James about it and he laughed, explaining that his father, Edward Calder, made certain everyone at the hotel knows who I am, and that I am “one of the family.” Though I’m not impressed by social status, and couldn’t care less which side of the tracks James comes from, for many that is a coveted designation.

Edward is the patriarch of the most well-connected, wealthiest, longest-standing family in Mitchell County.

And he also happens to own the Riverview Hotel.

The stone-clad structure I’ve just walked into is reminiscent of a Tuscan beauty.

It stretches three stories high with balconies connecting the wings flanking its left and right.

Lights beam up from the ground, illuminating the rustic facade and manicured landscaping.

The doorman opens the lobby door for me, and I walk inside, taking in the blue velvet couches and floor of sparkling white tiles joined by tiny black diamond ones.

Dazzling crystal chandeliers split the light into a rainbow of shards, my heels click-clicking as I make my way into the heart of the hotel.

I cross the threshold onto the hallway’s plush navy-and-gold carpet and scan the portraits of James’s ancestors—six in all—lining its walls.

The Calder family has been in Mitchell County since a few years after the Civil War, when James’s great-great-great-grandfather established a textile mill on the southern bank of the Tennessee River just west of Willow Peak.

It was the perfect location, the river making the transport of raw materials in and finished goods out easy.

The mill became the cornerstone of the local economy, birthing an entire community.

Eventually, people migrated to the plateau at the top of Willow Peak, the Calders among them.

Over more than a century and through several generations of Calders, the mill evolved into a global entity, specializing in high-tech textile and advanced materials with clients including the U.S.

military, state, local, and foreign governments, and private sector organizations all over the world.

Though the corporate offices reside in Huntsville now, the modern production facility remains here, built over the spot where the original mill once sat.

The Calders have watched over and supported this community since it started.

They’ve funded scholarships, art institutions, and hospitals.

They’ve held just about every political office related to the county that there is to hold—James is the second Calder to serve in the Alabama House of Representatives.

He’s the first one to run for the U.S. House, though.

His campaign is in the early stages, but come next November, I might have to make a bigger move than out of my house and into James’s.

I might be headed to Washington, D.C.

When James first told me about his plans, I wondered if it might be the end of us.

I couldn’t fathom leaving this place. Then he explained we wouldn’t have to leave.

At least not entirely. We’d keep the house here and only be in D.C.

when necessary. He also suggested that I could open a “satellite branch,” asking if I “could imagine the kinds of cases I would land there?”

That part actually sounded…well, fun. Grace also pointed out to me that change, however unwelcome, is inevitable. Sometime, somehow, things always change, one way or another. She said if I ever wanted to move on with my life, I would have to be open to it and trust God would pave the way.

As usual, Grace was right.

When I reach the dining room, the tuxedoed host is standing at attention behind his podium. “Ms. Walsh, lovely to see you. May I escort you to your table?”

“Hi, Phil. Yes, that would be great. Thanks.”

The dining room continues the hotel’s emphasis on elegance—more crystal chandeliers, flickering candles, intricate molding along the ceilings and walls, and two dozen round tables swathed in white linen.

More than half are occupied, but no one pays me any mind as I weave between the tables to keep up with Phil.

He’s leading me to the largest table beside the expansive glass windows overlooking the pond garden and natural spring.

When I see James, his father Edward, and several other members of the Calder clan seated there—James, Edward, James’s older brother Matthew, his cousins Alice, Ginny, and Chandler, his Aunt Jessie and Uncle Bill—I recalibrate, pushing down the urge to groan.

Usually, I’d be all over this. I love his family. But it’s been a long week.

So much for a simple celebration.

James stands, his father following suit, a grin splitting his face.

“The guest of honor!” Edward says, pushing in front of James and throwing his arms wide. I walk into them and he folds me into a bear hug, squeezes, then releases me to look at my face. “We are so proud of you!”

“You did an amazing job, Soph, making sure Fogerty got locked away,” says Matthew, raising a glass.

“Thank you, but the prosecutors are the ones who sealed it.”

“All right, all right, give me back my fiancée.” James gives me a quick kiss, then pulls out the seat between him and his father. “Glad you made it.”

“Me too,” I say, as I sit.

“We’ve been missing you,” Edward says, winking.

Edward is sixty-three, with rounded features, and a full head of gray hair.

James favors his mother—or at least the photos I’ve seen, as she died when he was twelve—with his dark blond hair, angular jaw, and sharp cheekbones.

Matthew inherited Edward’s facial features and the light brown hair of Edward’s youth.

All three work for Calder Industries—Edward is the COO, Matthew, the CFO.

They aren’t perfect, but they’re mine—or at least they will be soon.

“So, tell us everything,” Aunt Jessie prompts, her eyes sparkling with interest. “I want to hear all about the trial.” The rest of them chime in, agreeing.

Over appetizers and salads, I walk them through the last week, detailing witness testimony and the evidence.

I share the story, settling into the meal, the warmth of the modest fire in the stone fireplace making it cozy without overheating us.

“Were there any famous people?” Ginny asks.

Alice leans in. “Any news people we would know?”

Chandler’s an introvert by nature and has no questions for me. I think he’s spoken directly to me four times since I met him. He’s on his phone most of the night, his Rolex thudding repeatedly against the table, which he leans on while typing.

When I get to the part where Fogerty is found guilty on all three murder counts, Edward claps once, loud enough to catch the attention of other diners, whose heads snap to us. I try my best not to smile, given I’m discussing multiple homicides and the sentencing of a man to life in prison—or death.

“Then there’s the body from this morning,” Edward says, slicing into his prime rib. Turns out, thanks to the leak, not only was information about the discovery circulating in the jail, but it made its way to the local news, which aired the story during a mid-afternoon report.

“I didn’t say a thing,” James is quick to say.

“No, no”—Edward waves the idea away—“this came from other sources.”

So, not the news? Have we circled back to the leak?

I don’t bother to ask, because Edward won’t tell me where he heard it. If he was willing to share his source, he would have mentioned a name already.

“Yeah, well,” I say, “it’s an ongoing investigation?—”

“So you can’t say,” Matthew interrupts. “Dad, leave her alone.”

“No, it’s fine.” I shrug. “There isn’t much to say at this point.”

“But is she another one of Fogerty’s victims?” Edward presses. I’m not surprised. The man’s curiosity is insatiable. He knows everyone and everything that’s happening in this county, and if he doesn’t, he’ll make sure to find out. Fogerty’s murder case has been no exception.

“Dad, come on. You know she can’t tell you anything like that.” James’s beleaguered expression echoes the resigned exasperation coloring Matthew’s face.

“I’m just making conversation,” Edward insists.

“You’re pushing,” James replies.

“What I can tell you,” I say, “is that we’re looking into all possibilities.”

“You’ll tell me if I can help,” Edward says, wiping his mouth with his napkin. It’s a statement, not a question. It’s not the first time Edward has offered his assistance in my investigations. It happens nearly every time I share a story from my job.

Sometimes it’s tempting to take him up on it.

There are times when this family’s connections could be incredibly helpful.

The thing is, I don’t like to mix business and family—which is ironic, given I’m marrying into a dynasty erected on the back of a family business.

In my experience, most favors—even those from people who love you—come with a price that, someday, comes due.

I’m determined to protect my relationship with these guys, even if it means turning down help that might make my job easier.

I’ve managed to do pretty well by myself for the last five years. The smart move is to keep it that way. “Thank you. I’ll let you know if you can.”

“Good,” Edward says, nodding. “And now onto more pleasant topics—how’s the wedding planning going?”

The full moon pours out on my yard, turning it into a color-stripped version of midday. James, who insisted on following me home, now stands at the door, his arms around me.

“Best day this week,” he says, and brushes a hair from my forehead.

“Me too.”

“I know better than to ask, but I’m guessing you’re unavailable tomorrow? I would have asked earlier, but I didn’t want to bring up more things for Dad to pester you about.”

I chuckle. “I like that he’s interested in my work.”

“In our family, we call that butting-in. It’s only a matter of time before he starts telling you how to do your job. Regarding tomorrow, though, I’m assuming what happened today’s going to keep you busy?”

“Yeah. I have to go to Birmingham to follow up on some leads.”

“You’ve got leads already?”

I shrug nonchalantly. “I’m that good.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I am!”

“Oh, I believe it.”

My phone buzzes with a text from Tasha. Kurt Fogerty won’t be transported back to the jail until sometime tomorrow afternoon.

“Important?” James asks, his eyebrows raised.

“Just an update from Tasha.” I slide the phone back into my pocket. “Will I see you in the morning?”

I try my best to keep our standing Sunday appointment, no matter what’s going on with work. Occasionally I’ll miss it, but it’s rare.

“Uh, I would, but Dad’s asked us to have breakfast with some investor that’s only here for the weekend. It might turn into an all-day thing.”

“Oh, okay,” I say, affecting a light tone despite my disappointment.

At least once a month, Calder Industries jumps the line on Sunday and steals James away.

One benefit of ending up in D.C. for part of the year would be the physical separation from Calder Industries, which claims even more of James’s time than my job claims from me.

He rubs a thumb across my chin. “We’ll catch up when you’re back from Birmingham.”

I nod, though I know better. With everything going on, the odds of that happening are lower than either of us is willing to admit.

Not to mention that, after tomorrow’s interviews, I might be busy closing in on a killer.