“My mother?” I asked. “You know her?”
“We see each other from time to time at the gun range.”
She slipped inside the house, the door shutting with a soft click. I turned toward my car, her final words pressing against my thoughts like a tide that refused to recede. She had greeted me as if I were a stranger, yet she had made it clear in the end that she not only knew who I was, she knew a member of my family.
If she’d known about me from the start, I had to wonder what else she may have been hiding.
12
The boxes sat on my dining table like vaults containing secrets that needed to be unearthed. I hovered over them, taking a quiet moment to gather my thoughts before I dove in. I heard a sound and turned, catching sight of my mother through the window as she marched up the driveway in a puffy jacket with a scarf snug around her neck.
Her shrill voice echoed through the house as she stepped inside, yelling, “Yoo-hoo. Georgiana, are you here?”
She rounded the corner, rushing into the kitchen with a small brown bag in hand.
Pointing at the bag, I said, “What’s in the bag?”
“I brought you a sausage and egg muffin sandwich.”
“When I messaged you earlier, I didn’t expect you to drop what you were doing and come over.”
“You said you wanted to talk about this Bernadette woman. So here I am.”
She set the bag on the counter, tipping her head toward the boxes. “What do you have here?”
“Answers to my questions, I hope. How well do you know Bernadette?”
She removed her scarf and draped it across a chair. “I know her from the range, though I wouldn’t say I know her well. She keeps to herself when she’s there. She shows up, shoots, and leaves. Several of us have tried involving her in our conversations, but she never seems interested. We’ve even invited her to join us for coffee afterward, but she’s never shown up—not once.”
It occurred to me that I hadn’t eaten anything yet today, so I grabbed a plate and pulled the sandwich out of the bag, taking a bite. “Thanks for this, it’s great.”
“Oh, I know. Made it myself this morning. Why are you asking about Bernadette?”
“I spoke to her earlier. Did you know she lived next door to Celia Honeywell?”
“Is Celia the mother of that poor girl who was murdered?”
I nodded. “Bernadette told me she and Celia hadn’t gotten along for a while. When I asked why, she said her husband had died a few years back, and after that her daughter hit a rough patch and bullied Holly. Bernadette said Celia blamed her for it, treating her like she hadn’t raised her daughter the way she should have.”
She pulled out a chair and sat. “It seems harsh to blame a mother for her child’s choices. Then again, some parents fall short. I don’t know Bernadette well enough to judge. I can say she tends to keep people at a distance. Maybe she’s hiding something, or maybe she values her privacy. I’ve never been sure.”
“Bernadette is the one who found Holly right after she was shot. She also admitted to searching the house after she called the police. She thought the killer might still be there. She said she didn’t touch anything, but that’s not true. She searched the house with a knife she’d taken from the kitchen.”
My mother raised a brow. “I don’t believe that was all she touched either.”
“I agree, and I’m not sure what to think of her. When I was about to leave, she made a point of asking me to tell you she said hello.”
My mother cocked her head to the side. “How strange. She’s never given me more than a head nod as an acknowledgement.”
It seemed clear the mystery that was Bernadette wouldn’t be solved today, and I decided my time would be better spent going through boxes.
I reached for the nearest one. “Well, thanks for coming over. I better get started on these boxes.”
My mother rolled up her sleeves and smiled. “All righty, I’ll help.”
“I appreciate it, but you don’t need to help.”
“I know I don’t need to, but I’m going to, dear. Best you accept it.”
