ONE
HER DREAM SABBATICALwasnotoff to an auspicious start.
Easing back on the gas pedal, Cara Tucker frowned at the flashing lights in the distance as she rounded a bend in the two-lane, rural Missouri road.
Why was a police cruiser blocking the entrance to Natalie Boyer’s secluded estate—her destination on this early September Tuesday?
Cara coasted forward on the deserted road and squeezed onto the narrow shoulder a dozen yards back from the squad car emblazoned with the county sheriff logo. When a deputy emerged from behind the wheel and walked back to join her, she lowered her window, cringing as a wave of late-summer heat surged in.
“Morning, ma’am.” He stopped beside her car. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so. The owner of this property is expecting me. What’s going on?”
Instead of answering her question, he posed one of his own. “What’s your name, ma’am?”
She passed it on. “Is Natalie all right?”
“Give me a minute.” He pulled out his radio, walked several yards away, and angled sideways.
Cara peered at him through the haze of heat. He appeared to be talking, but his words were indecipherable.
Not a surprise, but frustrating nonetheless.
She shut her window, cranked up the AC to compensate for the humidity-laden air that had infiltrated the car, and tapped her fingers on the steering wheel while she waited for the deputy to return.
A minute ticked by. Two. Three.
What was going on?
Had something happened to Natalie?
And if it had, how would she manage to pull off the project that had won her a prestigious fellowship for the fall semester? Natalie and her journals were key to the research.
At a sudden prod from her conscience, she winced. Banished those selfish thoughts. The safety of the older woman should be more important than career considerations. Rather than worrying about the feather this project would add to her academic cap, she ought to be saying a prayer for—
The deputy ended his conversation and strode back to her.
Gripping the wheel with one hand, Cara opened her window again and gave him her full attention.
“I just spoke with the sheriff, ma’am. He’ll meet you in front of the house. Give me a minute to move my car.”
They were letting her in.
Yes!
One hurdle cleared.
While the deputy returned to his cruiser, Cara rolled up her window and put her car in gear.
Once access to the driveway was restored, she rolled forward and swung in, tires crunching on the gravel as she traversed the long lane that wound among the pin oaks, sweetgums, maples, cedars, and white pines that had been left togrow in their natural state on the rolling terrain, with scant room for one car to get through.
Rounding the last curve, she gave the clearing ahead of her a sweep.
The house was just as she remembered it from her one visit back in April. Similar in design to the style favored by the Missouri French settlers who’d arrived in the area in the 1700s, it was slightly elevated off the ground, with a steeply pitched hipped roof, wraparound galérie, and a multitude of French doors and windows.
New in the picture were the squad car like the one at the entrance—and an ambulance.
Her stomach clenched.
