“Some things are good,” he said, his cheeks flushing pink, and I knew he was thinking of Iris. “But like I told you before, the meditation center is off-limits to me and that makes me feel like an outsider. I mean, I’m either a member or I’m not, right?”
I nodded. “I can imagine how being excluded would make it seem that way.” Folding my hands on the desk, I leaned forward. “I have an idea of how we can figure out what’s going on there.”
“You do?” He looked up, his eyes bright. “It wouldn’t get me or anyone else in trouble, would it?”
I knew his unvoiced concern was for Iris. “I can’t imagine that it would. What if I hired one of your Dunston friends to go to Red Fox for a meditation session? I’d give him the money to pay for it, and he’d report back to us on what happens in there.” I could see the wheels turning in Trey’s mind as I spoke. “That way you could discover if it’s in keeping with your philosophies and if you’d still want to stay there. Or not,” I added quietly.
“You mean he’d, like, go undercover?”
“I guess you could say that.”
He sat back in his chair. “It might work. But, Mom, those meditation sessions are pretty expensive. A couple of hundred bucks.” He looked up at the ceiling, as if answers were written there. “I bet Jeff would do it. You remember Jeff Morgan, right?”
I did remember Jeff. He was one of the boys with whom Trey had gotten into trouble last spring for destroying school property. “Didn’t he go away to college?”
“Nah. He said he decided not to go in the end, but I don’t think he got accepted anywhere. Anyway, his dad gave him a job at the car dealership and then Jeff moved out and now he’s living with his girlfriend.” He nodded vigorously. “Yeah, Jeff’d definitely do it. How much would you pay him?”
“What would he expect?”
“I bet he’d do it for a hundred bucks.” Trey looked at me with concern. “Can you afford three hundred dollars to do this, Mom?”
“Trey, I’d do anything to help you. You know that, right?”
He smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, I know.”
“And it’s worth it if it helps you to figure your life out.”
Trey looked at his watch and stood. “I gotta go. I have a delivery to make in Dunston. I’ll talk to Jeff while I’m there.”
I walked him to the door and he turned to give me a big bear hug. “Thanks, Mom, for listening. And for having my back.”
“You’re welcome, Trey.” I watched him as he headed for the lobby, feeling pride in how he was maturing. Abruptly, he stopped and turned.
“I forgot to ask about that college admissions deferment—how long is it good for?”
Despite my excitement over his question, I calmly replied, “Only until January. Are you thinking you might go after all?”
“Just considering all my options.” He grinned and then was gone.
THE NEXT MORNING I entered Espresso Yourself in better spirits than I’d been in for a while. Having slept soundly the previous night and knowing that Trey was reconsidering his future had me feeling cautiously optimistic.
Makayla had just handed a coffee to a customer when she saw me. “Morning, girl. You’re looking chipper as a chipmunk today.”
“I am feeling good. Good enough to have a cranberry orange scone with my latte.”
She reached for a cup. “Take a seat. I’ll come and have breakfast with you.”
When she brought our beverages and scones to the table, she handed me a copy of the Dunston Herald. “See this headline? Bad stuff happening in Dunston.”
I unfolded the paper as she sat down. Local Author Murdered! screamed out from the front page. I felt as if my heart stopped beating for a second and I gaped at Makayla. “Do you know who?”
She shook her head. “Read me what it says.”
Yesterday morning, local author Tilly Smythe was found murdered in her home.
My hands started to shake. “Makayla, I know her! I was at her house the other day.” Taking a deep breath, I continued reading:
Her cleaning lady, Ms. Anna Clyde, arrived at the house at eleven A.M. and discovered Mrs. Smythe’s body in the kitchen. According to a preliminary report from the medical examiner’s office, the cause of death was strangulation. There was no sign of forced entry and no unknown persons were sighted in the neighborhood. Smythe, aged forty-four, was clutching a stuffed toy that might have been left behind by her assailant. Ms. Clyde did not recognize the teddy bear. “It doesn’t belong to either of the children,” she claimed emphatically.
I couldn’t read any further. My eyes kept traveling over the words “clutching a stuffed toy.” It was impossible to ignore the similarity of this morbid detail to T. J. West’s proposal in which his victim had a teddy bear lying next to her. Nor could I ignore that Tilly had been seeing a man matching his description all over town. I myself had observed him at the bar in Dunston, and now his abrupt disappearance seemed especially suspicious. I suddenly found it difficult to breathe and dropped the newspaper. It fluttered to the table.
“Honey, you’ve gone white as a fish belly,” Makayla said with concern. “Are you okay?”