Page 12 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

A woman set two menus on the table and took their drink orders.

After she walked away, Aspen said, “Your friend seems nice.”

“He’s a good guy. We met at church.” He watched her as if gauging her reaction. “Maybe you’d like to come sometime?”

Aspen hadn’t missed a Sunday at her church in Kona since Dad’s death. Some people let tragedy separate them from God. Not Aspen. She’d leaned into Him in the last year, more desperate for her heavenly Father now that her earthly one was gone. “Which church?”

“Coventry Bible Fellowship. Modern worship, great pastor, in a hundred-year-old building.”

“I would love that,” she said. “I’ll be there Sunday.”

He smiled, seeming genuinely pleased. “Great. I’ll save you a seat, introduce you to some friends.”

Even though she wouldn’t be staying, the thought of meeting people in town, of having friends here—even temporarily—appealed to her.

The server returned to take their orders. Aspen hadn’t looked at the menu and scanned it quickly before ordering soup and salad.

“Seafood platter and onion rings.” Garrett handed over their menus. When she was gone, he said, “Now that you’ve seen the house, what do you think?”

She was formulating an answer when an old man stopped beside their table and greeted Garrett with a handshake. His hair, what was left of it, was dark gray, his eyes brown and clear when he turned to her.

“Bart Bradley.” He held out his age-spotted hand, and she shook it. It was cold, but his grip was strong.

She said, “Nice to meet you. I’m Aspen Kincaid.”

Without letting up his grip, the man studied her like one might a science experiment involving mold or bat feces. “You’re Jane’s daughter.”

Shock silenced her, but she managed a quick nod.

“You look just like her.” Bart’s eyes narrowed. “She ever turn up?”

It wasn’t the words so much as the tone, not to mention the way he was glaring at her, that had Aspen’s heartbeat racing.

Before she could respond, Garrett said, “Not sure her life or her mother’s are any of your business, Mr. Bradley.”

The old man finally let go of Aspen’s hand. He turned to Garrett. “What do you know about it?”

“I know you’re not being very friendly to someone new to town,” he said. “Either be polite or move along.”

This man had information about her mother, information she wanted, but she didn’t have the courage to ask questions, not seeing the sheer hatred in his eyes.

“Pardon my rudeness.” He looked anything but sorry. “Your mother caused a lot of heartache. I just wondered?—”

“She disappeared when I was a baby,” Aspen said.

He glared, and she held his eye contact, refusing to back down as if they were in some sort of battle of wills. Then he huffed and spun and stalked across the room.

This wasn’t about Aspen, it was about Jane. What had her mother done to garner such hatred?

And why did Aspen suddenly think she’d prefer even the creepy basement to this public restaurant?

In that low, soothing voice, Garrett said, “Sorry about that. He’s a crusty old man. I don’t know what it is that makes some old people shed their manners, not that Mr. Bradley ever had many to begin with.”

“He’s lived in town a long time, I guess.”

“All his life, I think.” Garrett seemed to be studying her now, and why not? He must not have known her connection to this town. He must be curious, but unlike Bart Bradley, he was too polite to ask.

“I was born here, but I haven’t lived here since I was a baby.”

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