Page 22 of Safeguarding the Witness

He nodded.

His thoughtfulness overwhelmed her. Impulsively, she moved toward him and threw her arms around his neck for a full-body hug. Her intention wasn’t in the least bit sexual, but she couldn’t help noticing how nicely their bodies fit together. A warm blush climbed her throat and heated her cheeks as she quickly retreated, putting a safe distance between them. “Thank you, Spence.”

“I’m hoping you like my choices.”

“So far, so good,” she said. “Impressionist prints, copies of Chagall and a Moulin Rouge poster.”

He guided her up the wide wooden staircase to the second floor. “There are five bedrooms up here. You have the largest, and you share a bathroom with me. The other three use the large bathroom in the hall.”

She slipped through the door into a charming room, painted soft blue with pine furniture including a desk. The Firebird painting hung on the wall beside the bed so it would be the first thing to be seen in the morning and the last at night. The subject of this canvas was an intimate landscape with a huntress hidden in the shrubs and ferns. Mollie traced the bow and arrow in the air outside the painting. “She did a series of these goddesses of the forest.”

“I arranged to borrow these two paintings for the weekend,” he said, “but I think I’m going to keep them. I like the idea of a secret goddess hiding in the trees.”

She did, too. Sometimes, she imagined herself in the role of the goddess. Moving mysteriously through the forests and hillsides, she could work her magic and solve her problems. While continuing to study the painting, she asked, “What’s our plan for tonight and tomorrow?”

“Quintana will come up here with something for you to eat. She also has clothes for you to change into. After I talk to Erin, I’ll bring her into your room. I’ve arranged for her and her daughter to stay in the bedroom across the hall.”

“And tomorrow?”

“The memorial is tomorrow from two to three o’clock at United Methodist of Cloverdell. After, there’s a reception at Irma’s house, where Bethany still lives.”

Mollie was deeply grateful to Bethany Randolph, the oldest and most responsible of the Four Clovers, for handling the required arrangements and plans for her great-aunt’s death. Irma knew everybody in Cloverdell and the surrounding area. The pews in United Methodist would be overflowing with friends coming to pay their respects.

Remembering her informal contract with Spence, she asked, “Is it okay for me to call Bethany and find out if I can help? Or does that interfere with your investigating?”

“No problem as long as I know where you are and who you’re with,” he said. “In fact, you three Clovers should put your heads together and decide when you want to talk to my grandpa about what’s in the will. The formal reading can be scheduled for next week, but it would be good for you to get a heads-up.”

He had already grasped the doorknob, ready to start on his next phase: the interrogation of Erin. She felt a little bit abandoned by his obvious need to move forward and leave her behind. At the same time, she welcomed this moment of privacy. With no one else watching, she could read the note she’d found in his car. Finally.

When her bedroom door closed behind Spence, she locked it. Pacing the pale blue carpet, she literally took steps of moving on. Seated at the desk, she placed the envelope on the desktop and ran her hands over the crumpled paper to smooth out the fold.

In the center desk drawer, she found a letter opener and used it to slit the top. In the silence of her bedroom, the tearing sounded louder than a cannon. A note—folded in thirds—was inside. The message had been typed or written on a printer. It read:

I need to see you. Meet me on Saturday at the Clover Clubhouse. Five in the afternoon. Come alone.

The signature was another spiky M.

Madison?

Mollie’s breath caught in her throat. The note confirmed her intuition. It had to be from Madison. The only people who knew the location of the clubhouse were the Four Clovers. The note couldn’t have come from Erin, who had already tracked her down. And it wasn’t Bethany’s style. That left Madison.

Her twin was alive. And needed to see her. Why would she say that? See her? What did that mean? How was the envelope hidden in Spence’s car? Why, why, why?

Mollie needed help to decipher this life-changing clue. She wanted to turn to Spence, to confide in him.

A knock on her bedroom door startled her. Maybe he’d returned. Oh, yes, I hope so. She shoved the note back into the envelope, dashed to the door, unlocked it and flung it open. A small girl with a huge smile stood outside her bedroom.

“Hi. I’m Amy,” she said. “I’m four.”

“I’m Mollie.”

“I know.” Amy rolled her eyes. “Mommy says you’re an artist. And you’re supposed to draw my picture.”

Chapter Eight

Sitting behind the desk in his home office on the first floor of the safe house, Spence typed his notes into a laptop that synced with his phone and his office computer. Keeping records of his work with Mollie wasn’t necessary for billable hours because his grandpa had made a long-ago arrangement with Irma Winchell and her heirs. Fees for the law firm were covered by a generous annual stipend. Nor did Spence need to file a report with his superiors. In his position as head of security, he had autonomy.

The notes were to help him keep track of the many details in Mollie’s case. Spence had started with the first contact from her dad. Then he recorded the attack at her Denver house. Now, he added his contact with Agent Jesse Jamison and the US marshal who was wounded—what was that guy’s name again? And the shootout with Salem SWAT and the car chase with Erin Eckhart. His interrogation of Erin would be the next entry.