Free Stealing Shadows by Kay Hooper

her?"

    "Well, that she knew things. Things she shouldn't have been able to know."

    Matt stared down at her, brows raised. "I heard talk. So what? She was a loner, kept to herself, hardly came into town – and when she did, she barely spoke to anyone and was usually dressed oddly for a woman her age. People were bound to talk. It doesn't mean anything, Abby."

    Abby smiled. "I guess not. But, Matt – if Cassie Neill can help you, let her. Don't ignore what she has to say."

    "You don't usually tell me how to do my job," he noted dryly.

    "I'm not now. But I know how stubborn you can be. You've made up your mind she's a phony, haven't you?"

    "Maybe."

    "Admit it, Matt. You wouldn't even have given her the time of day if Ben hadn't insisted. You know he's no gullible fool."

    "No, but he isn't thinking with his head. Not where Cassie Neill is concerned. Beats me what he sees in her, but the lady has certainly grabbed his attention."

    Abby opened her mouth, then closed it and shook her head. After that brief pause she merely said, "Just don't let a preconceived idea get in your way, Matt, that's all I'm saying."

    "No, I won't." He bent and kissed her one last time, then laughed a little as he headed for the door. "I had no idea you believed in that stuff."

    When she was alone in the bedroom, Abby gazed toward the door and murmured, "Oh, I believe in it, Matt. I believe in it."

    Ivy Jameson was having a bad day. In fact, she'd had a bad week.

    On Monday she'd had the unpleasant duty of taking her mother's old cat to the vet to have him euthanized; Wednesday had come the notice from the North Carolina Department of Revenue claiming she owed back taxes; yesterday she'd had to tear the hide off a TV repairman who obviously didn't know his ass from a three-foot hole in the ground; and today, on this pleasant, warm Friday afternoon in late February, she was being told that her ten-year-old car was on its last wheels, so to speak.

    "A new transmission," Dale Newton said, consulting his clipboard. "The brakes are shot. Universal joint. The left front tire is bald – "

    "Enough." She glared at him. "How much?"

    The mechanic shifted uneasily. "I haven't worked up an estimate yet, Mrs. Jameson. You just asked me to check it out and see if it needed any work. It does. There's more – "

    She waved him to a stop. "Just work up the estimate and then call me. But you'd better bear in mind, Dale Newton, that my late husband loaned you the money to get this garage going fifteen years ago. I expect that to make a difference. I expect some consideration for a poor widow."

    "Yes, ma'am." Newton smiled weakly. "I'll have the estimate ready in a couple of hours."

    "You do that."

    "I can give you a leaner, Mrs. Jameson – "

    "No. I hate driving a strange car. I'll walk across the street to Shelby's and call a taxi."

    "I have a phone, Mrs. Jameson."

    "I realize that. What you don't have is coffee. Good day, Mr. Newton."

    "Ma'am." Newton watched her walk away, her back ramrod straight, and he wondered, not for the first time, if old Kenneth Jameson had died because he'd been sick – or just plain tired.

    Ivy left Newton's Garage on the corner of Main Street and First, walked a block toward the center of town, and then crossed the street to Shelby's Restaurant. A landmark in Ryan's Bluff that had once been a wonderful example of the Art Deco style, and last modernized in the sixties, it had been several times redecorated through the years, and all the individual touches of various owners had left it somewhat garish. It still had a Formica counter and swivel stools at the front, and boasted clear plastic tablecloths over the linen ones.

    It was a place Ivy visited regularly and just as habitually criticized, a one-time hot spot that had seen better days but still offered good, plain food and hot coffee right up until midnight, seven days a week.

    "This coffee is too strong, Stuart," Ivy told the young man behind the