Page 1 of Luck of the Devil
Chapter 1
They said my mother’s funeral was one of the largest in Jackson Creek’s since my murdered sister’s twenty years prior.
My mother would have been bursting at the seams with pride, while saying in her smug tone, “Well, of course it was.”
The thing was, there were few true mourners in attendance. Most people were there because it seemed the right thing to do given her social status. The fact that it was the perfect place for people to gossip about her death was pure bonus.
“I heard,” a woman said in a not-so-hushed tone to several of her friends, “she purposely drove off that bridge. That her daughter’s scandal pushed her into it.”
I was lurking around the corner, on my way back from the restroom after making sure the bruises from my own car accident, days before, were still covered with makeup. I’d also snuck a sip of vodka from the flask tucked in my purse. If Harper from last fall—the me prior to my scandalous incident—could see me now…
But I’d only had one drink that morning and my hands had begun to shake as sweat pooled at the nape of my neck. I couldn’t look like the wreck I was, so I’d taken a healthy sip, despite the fact I’d sworn to give it up.
My mother would have said it was rude to plaster my back to the hallway wall, eavesdropping, but my mother was no longer here to police my behavior like the manners sergeant she’d always been. She would have loved to know her influence had lived on, not that I was moving from my position.
“So, you think she actually, you know,” a woman who sounded like she had a stuffy nose said. Had she been crying? For such a large attendance, there had been very few tears. “You think she actually…” Her voice trailed off, then she whispered, “killed herself?”
“That’s what I heard,” another woman said in a snooty tone. “That she drove right off that bridge.” I could only imagine her adding a hand motion to dramatize her statement.
“I heard it was her husband that pushed her over the edge,” a fourth woman said.
“He pushed her car off the bridge?” the woman with the stuffy nose asked in horror.
“No, don’t be ridiculous,” the snooty woman said. “I heard he left her and was filing for divorce.”
I stepped around the corner and they all froze, their eyes widening in silent horror. Whether it was because I’d caught them maligning my mother or because I was the infamous Harper Adams, I couldn’t be sure. Maybe both.
“If she killed herself,” I said in a reasonable tone, “then why were there skid marks on the road?” I lifted my brow.
None of them answered, still frozen in shock.
“And if she planned to kill herself,” I said, taking a step toward them as my voice took on a slight edge, “then why did she have a suitcase packed with a week’s worth of clothes? Do you think my mother was stupid enough to think she had to pack for the afterlife?”
“Harper,” my friend Louise said as she walked up from behind, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “Why don’t we go take a rest in the family room?”
The women took that as their cue to bolt, scattering into the crowd like cockroaches caught in the light. I would have found it hilarious under any other circumstances.
I could practically hear my mother saying, “Harper, really. Must you be so uncouth?”
Yes, Mother. Why is this a surprise?
“I know this is hard,” Louise said, tears swimming in her eyes. “People are so mean.”
“I didn’t want a funeral,” I said. “Not like this. Not with the sharks circling. I wanted something private.”
“I know,” she said, squeezing my shoulder before dropping her arm. “But your father did.”
We’d had a fight about it. I said I couldn’t deal with the backstabbers who would show up with their fake niceties. I guess I’d gotten the niceties part wrong.
Dad had insisted this was what my mother would have wanted. To let the town pay tribute to her. The joke was on my parents. To our faces, we heard what a great woman she was, but in the corners, they were dragging out every misdeed she’d ever done, from how she’d cheated Betty Jean Hendrix out of the presidency of the garden club to how she’d dominated the church auxiliary to the way she’d spread rumors about a woman—her name long forgotten—and run her out of town.
And those were only a few stories I’d heard whispered. Still, a few people had shown up and offered me true condolences.
Louise, of course, who had been by my side for the past several days when her schedule as a deputy sheriff allowed. And my friend Nate Davis, the owner of Morty’s Bookstore, although I’d only seen him at the funeral. Betty, who owned Betty’s Diner, walked up after the service. Although I’d only known her a week, she gave me a warm hug and told me to come by for pie anytime I liked. Vanessa Peterman, who’d been my sister’s best friend when she’d died, came and hugged me, telling me how sorry she was and how grateful she was to me for helping get her daughter back a little over a month ago, a kidnapping very few people knew about.
The employees and partners from Dad’s law firm had come of course, mostly for my father, but I’d worked there for nearly a month, so many knew me and offered me sincere condolences as well, even though they likely knew what a nightmare my mother had been to live with. Several of the paralegals had been there since before my sister’s kidnapping and murder twenty years before and knew me from when I was a little girl, visiting my father’s office with Andi.
Misti, the bartender at Scooter’s Tavern, and a few other employees had come. None had approached me, but they’d given me solemn nods from the back of the church. Their boss, James Malcolm, was noticeably absent, not that I was surprised. I hadn’t expected him to show up. Hell, I hadn’t expected his employees to show up. James Malcolm attending would not have been a good thing. In fact, it would have been very, very bad.
