An Accidental Woman by Barbara Delinsky Page B

was thinking. How not to? She had blurted it all out in the very first words she’d said to him face-to-face. I can’t run. I can’t ski or hike. I can’t work in the forest the way I was trained, because I can’t get around in a chair on rutted dirt. I can’t dance. I can’t drive a car unless it’s been specially adapted. I can’t pick apples or work the cider press. I can’t even stand in the shower.
    He understood that for twelve years she hadn’t thought about those things. Now, with the interest he showed in her, she did, and she’d been taken by surprise. She needed time.
    So he had given her that. He had dropped by later on the pretense of just passing through town, staying no more than a few hours, and every few weeks, he sent her a postcard from wherever he was. But he hadn’t called in a month. That didn’t mean he had been idle. He had gone to extremes, including a few under the table, to learn everything he could about Poppy.
    One of the things he had known from the start was that she and Heather Malone were best of friends. Heather had been on her way out of the general store that day when he and Poppy had come for lunch at the café. She hadn’t stopped for more than a quick introduction to Griffin and a brief exchange with Poppy, but that exchange had been in the intimate tones of women who were close. Griffin was certain—beyond any reasonable doubt—that if Poppy found out that he was the one who had tipped off the cold case squad, she would never talk to him again.
    â€œIs it her?” Randy asked.
    Of course it was her.
    â€œYou said she didn’t want a relationship,” Randy argued. “If that’s changed, you should’ve clued me in.”
    Griffin didn’t know whether it had changed or not, but he wasn’t saying that to Randy. He had his pride. He also had great hopes, which his brother could dash in an instant. So he said, “If you ever— ever —tell anyone that you got the lead on this case from me, you’re a goner.”
    â€œWhoa. That’s a threat.”
    â€œComing from your brother, it sure is. I can make you mincemeat in this family. All I have to do is start talking about Cindy. You spend hours tracking down strangers, but you can’t find your own sister?”
    There was a second’s silence, then a quiet, “Low blow, Griff.”
    â€œShe’s been gone for seven years now, put Mom in her grave, sent Dad out tomcatting, made family gatherings such a nightmare we don’t bother much anymore.”
    â€œI wasn’t the brother who got her hooked. That was James.”
    â€œSo did we know?” Griffin asked aloud as he had so often silently. “Did we look the other way? Could we have stopped it?”
    â€œOur family has ghosts. Most families do.”
    Griffin refused to reason the situation away. “Cindy’s no ghost. She’s alive out there somewhere. If you ever put in half the effort trying to find her that you’ve put into ruining a good woman’s life, she’d be back in the fold.”
    â€œHey,” Randy suddenly said in a way that signaled a blow-off, “I’m driving into the garage under my building. No reception here. Talk later.”
    The phone went dead. Not that Griffin had more to say. He was thinking back on meeting Heather that day in October four months before. She had been concerned about one of her children and had medicine in her hand. The look on Poppy’s face while they talked vouched for affection and respect. Poppy would never have a friend who was a killer.

    * * *
Poppy was dying to be at the courthouse in West Eames. Like John, she wanted to see for herself what was going on. More than that, though, she wanted Heather to see her there and know that she cared. Same with the magistrate or judge or whoever was deciding Heather’s fate. That person needed to know that Heather had