Secrets for Sale Read online

  Contents

  First Title

  Other Books

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty Note:

  Other books published by Ralston Store Publishing

  SECRETS

  FOR SALE

  Also by Jerri Kay Lincoln:

  Rutledge Historical Society Cozy Mysteries

  Message for Murder

  Death over Divorce

  Kousins Kan’t Kill

  Rogues to Riches

  Secrets for Sale

  Lady Smith Lady

  Memoir

  The Dog Who Rescued Me

  Children’s Books

  Sparkles the Unicorn and Kindness

  Cooper’s Smile

  The Little Unicorn Who Could

  Do Bears Poop in the Woods?

  Can Pigs Fly?

  Why Do Puppy Dogs Have Cold Noses?

  The Invisible Lion

  La Petite Licorne Qui Pouvait

  Das Kleine Einhorn Was Es Kann

  The Little Unicorn Who Could Coloring Book

  Do Bears Poop in the Woods? Coloring Book

  Cookbooks

  Ten Delicious Dairy-Free Stevia-Sweetened Ice Cream Recipes

  Secrets for Sale

  Jerri Kay Lincoln

  Copyright © 2019 Ralston Store Publishing

  All Rights Reserved.

  Ralston Store Publishing

  P.O. Box 1684

  Prescott, Arizona 86302

  The reader should note that the nutritional beliefs and food choices in this book are those of the characters and not necessarily those of the author or publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedicated to the sleuth in all of us.

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE RUTLEDGE, ARIZONA High Council meeting room was at the end of a long hallway lined with pictures of various types of cacti. Although I had been in the building several times visiting my boss, Martha Goldstein, I had never been inside the council meeting room. At my feet my dog, Bingo, a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, leaned against me. Since I’d gotten him back, he went almost everywhere with me.

  Petra Hamilton, the sixteen-year-old girl whom I worked with, sat next to me. I shouldn’t say girl, I should call her a woman. Weird, yes, but a woman. Petra wore her hair cut short—her purple hair, that is—and had tattoos and piercings all over her face and other body parts. That’s what I’ve heard, anyway. I’d only seen the piercings on her face; and oh, yeah, I’ve seen the bellybutton ring when she wears those short blouses that I still can’t believe the high school allows. In my day, the dress code—wait, you probably don’t want to hear about that.

  Sitting on the other side of Petra was her boyfriend, Mason. He was a tattooed-up biker. Don’t think I’m judging these two. I used to, yes. I’ve learned that lesson—okay, okay, I’m still learning that lesson—but these two are awesome. Mason was in pre-med in Flagstaff, and Petra was in a special program to complete her last two years of high school and her first two years of college simultaneously. The school only offers that opportunity to the best and brightest. And Petra is all that and more. She is also responsible, reliable, and conscientious. I can’t say enough good about Petra, but I’ve probably said enough already, so I’ll shut up for now.

  When I sat down, Petra leaned over and whispered to me, “There he is. The one who plans to buy the Rutledge Historical Society building.” She motioned with her head to the front row on the other side of the room. Two men, father and son, sat there looking quite satisfied with themselves—at least the father did. The son looked uncomfortable.

  I glanced around, searching the faces of the audience. Besides the two men in the front, and Petra, Mason, and I, there were only three other people in attendance. When I came again to the two in the front row, the father turned around and made eye contact. I glared at him; and the jerk smiled, like he had it all and there was nothing I could do about it. And that was mostly true. But I was here to change things.

  There were six rows of five chairs each on either side of the aisle in the section of the room reserved for the audience. The padded chairs, covered with black corduroy, were surprisingly comfortable. The face I searched for was nowhere in sight. That face was Billy Madrigal, my husband. Sheriff Billy Madrigal. And my new husband! We hadn’t even been married a week yet, but because the wedding was quick and unexpected—no, it wasn’t because of that. Get your mind out of the gutter—we hadn’t gone on our honeymoon yet.

  The honeymoon was also delayed because of this meeting, which I had to attend. The town council, in all their short-sightedness and lack of wisdom, decided to sell the Rutledge Historical Society building, where Petra and I worked. That’s why Petra and I were here.

  I’ll be honest with you. I don’t need to work. That is, I don’t need to work financially. But there are other needs besides financial needs, right? And my need is that I am absolutely and positively not the country club, golf, and luncheon with the hoity-toity ladies sort of person. Kill me now, please. That is not my thing. And I enjoyed working at the historical society.

  I heard heavy footsteps of cowboy-booted feet and turned around to see Billy walk in the door. He winked at me and sat on the other side of the aisle. He had already told me he wouldn’t sit next to me because he was afraid I would make a spectacle of myself, and he didn’t want to taint the distinguished office of the sheriff. Yes, he really said that, but he was joking. Wasn’t he? I think he was. He smiled when he said it, I think.

  The audience’s soft conversations ebbed as several members of the council walked in and seated themselves. I didn’t know most of them, although I recognized the mayor, Joe Stoddard, the vice-mayor, Christa Hawthorne, who owned a little boutique just down from the historical society, and two of the council members: Anthony Petrelli, owner of a used and new car lot, and Paul Gallagher, vice-principle of the high school. The
mayor sat in the middle, with the vice-mayor, on his right. I guess Christa was his right-hand man. Or something. The three remaining council members sat on the other side of the mayor. Perpendicular to the seven-person panel was a two-person desk at each end. Martha Goldstein sat at the left desk and a man I didn’t know sat at the right desk.

  I leaned over to Petra. “So Martha is on the town council? I didn’t realize that.”

  “Lorry!” she said in her condescending voice I tried to ignore, “No, she’s not on the council! Martha is the town manager! Why can’t you remember that?”

  “It’s not that I forgot it, Petra, I thought she was the town clerk.”

  Petra shook her head in disgust and whispered something to Mason that made him lean forward, glance at me, and laugh. I ignored that, too.

  “Who is that person on the right, across from Martha?”

  “That’s Russell Tabor. He’s the town clerk.”

  Paul Gallagher and Anthony Petrelli sat to the right of Christa Hawthorne. “Petra, who are the three people to the left of the mayor?”

  “Left to right, Brent Lindsay, Elizabeth Conroy, and Douglas Gates.”

  Now it was my turn to be haughty. “Petra! I can see by their nameplates what their names are! What I don’t know is who they are!”

  “Brent Lindsay owns the Rutledge Super Market. Rumor had it Douglas Gates was related to Bill Gates and his fortune. Elizabeth Conroy is the retired principal of the high school. Wasn’t she the principal when you attended school there?”

  “Now that you mention it, the name sounds familiar.” I had been back in Rutledge almost a year and still had a lot to learn. Not that I had just moved to town—I grew up here. But I went away to college and returned not quite a year ago. Since then, my life had gone through some miraculous changes. I’d tell you about them, but the meeting was about to start.

  Before it did, Petra leaned over and said one more thing to me, a catch in her voice. “I know she was there when my brother was in school.”

  Petra didn’t talk about her brother too often. She rarely mentioned him—which I could understand, because I had lost a sibling, too.

  The mayor pounded his gavel in front of him and said, “I’d like to call the meeting to order. Rise with me, please, for the pledge of allegiance.” He put his hand on his heart and pivoted around facing the flag on the wall behind him. There were three flags behind him, though, the United States flag, the Arizona flag, and the Rutledge County flag with the town seal on it. The town seal showed a baby javelina with a smile on its cute, little face. It looked like the mayor was facing the Rutledge flag. Maybe he just liked javelinas. Although, it was difficult to tell which flag since they were all so close together.

  Everyone in the audience stood up, put their hands on their hearts, and recited in unison with the High Council. The reason—the stupid reason—the Town Council calls themselves the High Council is because Jacob High, from the late nineteenth century, was instrumental in founding the town. The Rutledge Historical Society building, in all its splendor and glory, stood on High Street—also named after Jacob High. But for the town council, after all these years, to still call themselves the High Council, seemed a little silly and pompous to me. With a name like that, they should all wear party hats or something.

  At the end of the pledge, the mayor and the rest of the council turned around and sat down. The mayor said, “Thank you and welcome.” He looked over at Russell Tabor. “Can we have a roll call, please?”

  Tabor, a thin, gangly sort of man, nodded without smiling and started calling off names of everyone on the council, prefacing each one with “Council Member” until he got to the mayor and vice-mayor. As he called each person’s name, they responded with “Here” or “Yes.” It was more mindless bureaucratic nonsense that I knew I would get an overload of on this night. I hoped I could say my piece, they would change their minds about selling the historical society because of the lucidity and brilliance of my arguments, and that would be the end of it. But that’s not always how things turn out, is it?

  There was a lightness to the meeting, a feeling of jocularity and bonhomie I didn’t feel. If they knew how I felt, the meeting wouldn’t have that feeling to it at all. Apparently, no one had told them. I was a little concerned Billy might—since he was the sheriff and a respected member of the Rutledge officials and all—but when he told me he didn’t plan on sitting with me, I knew then that he hadn’t said a word. The so-called High Council wasn’t sitting in wait for me to explode on them, and that was good. Surprise is a wonderful thing. If they don’t expect my passionate speech, I might even make a difference and get my way. I liked getting my own way. Who doesn’t?

  There was even more bureaucratic nonsense going on that I tuned out. Motion this and motion that. It was like a game I played when I was a kid. Too bad the game was so boring I didn’t even remember its name. The white noise in the background of the room—it was white noise to me, anyway—gave me time to reminisce about what had happened to me in the past several months.

  I had left an abusive marriage, gotten a divorce—well, almost, then it turned out I didn’t need one—gotten a good job, adopted my son, met and married an amazing man, and last and definitely not least, I had inherited my mother’s gazillions. When she died, her attorneys lied to me saying that she had given it all to charity. Then I started going over the murders that had happened in Rutledge since I returned to town when Petra poked me with her elbow.

  “You’re up,” she said. “You have one minute. Don’t waste it.”

  I had heard through the white noise haze of the meeting they had said something about a call to the public and going to the podium. So I stood up and strolled my big butt up to the podium right past the father and son usurpers in the front row. While I would have liked to have farted in their faces as I walked by, that particular option wasn’t available to me at that precise moment, if you know what I mean.

  All right, I have to admit something you would find out in a minute, anyway. I’m not much of a public speaker. It’s never been something I have aspired to or found much interest in. And I didn’t practice or plan what I would say in the meeting. I figured my passion would carry me through. Well, it didn’t.

  When I glanced at Martha and Billy, neither of them looked at me. I think they expected the worst. And they should have. Very respectfully, I nodded to the mayor and the council. “Mayor, council, I can’t believe you idiots are really trying to sell the historical society building! Don’t you realize how many people enjoy going to see the exhibits every year?”

  The audience and the council erupted in pandemonium with my first statement, so I don’t think they even heard the more important question that followed it. Bingo, besieged with me at the podium, looked at me nervously.

  The mayor pounded his gavel, scowled at Billy, and said, “Sheriff Madrigal. Can’t you keep your wife in order?”

  “Obviously not,” said Billy with a straight face. “You’re welcome to try.”

  The audience exploded in laughter, and I even saw some sly smiles on the members of the council. Even the mayor had to suppress a laugh. “Lorry Madrigal, that is enough. You are excused. Is there anyone else who would like to address the council?”

  “Lockharte,” I said.

  “What?” asked the mayor, clearly annoyed.

  “Lockharte. My last name is Lockharte. I kept my maiden name. I’m not Lorry Madrigal, I’m Lorry Lockharte.”

  The mayor waved me away with the back of his hand and repeated, “Anyone else?”

  As I held my head high and strolled back to my seat acting like I had been eloquent instead of atrocious, Petra stood up and walked to the podium. Instead of her usual loud and questionable attire, she wore a conservative black skirt and light blue blouse. I thought maybe she could charm them and get across to them what I had hoped to and miserably failed at.

  My hopes crumbled when Petra reached the podium because there were giggles and jeers from the audi
ence. Although she was dressed conservatively, she couldn’t hide her purple hair, tattoos, and piercings. Didn’t Petra get the last giggle, though! When she began to speak in a clear, authoritative tone, with all the eloquence I wanted but didn’t have, the audience silenced themselves and listened.

  “My name is Petra Hamilton. I have worked part time at the Rutledge Historical Society for the past two years. In that time, I have watched small children grow excited over the exhibits, while their parents marveled at the history that drew them inside. And hidden between the covers of our genealogical binders, I have seen people discover secrets about their family that surprised and delighted them. We are in the process of scanning all our documents so the records will be available online. Are you really going to sell off the Rutledge Historical Society building and let all that history—the history of our town—go to waste? Are you—”

  But she didn’t get to finish because the mayor said, “That’s all the time you have, Miss Hamilton. Take your seat, please.”

  That’s when I realized what was happening. They didn’t want to hear it. They had already made up their minds, and it was a done deal. The thought made me sick to my stomach. When Petra sat down beside me, I whispered to her, “You did great.”

  She whispered back, “A lot of good it did. They’ve already made up their minds.”

  Petra and I thought alike. That was scary. The whole event depressed me, and I would have stood up and walked out of the place in disgust, but when I glanced over at Billy, he narrowed his eyes at me disapprovingly. So I kept my seat.

  The next item at the meeting was called a consent agenda. Russell Tabor, the town clerk, read a bunch of items off. Then the mayor said, “Is there anything you want pulled from the consent agenda to be considered and discussed separately?”

  Everyone said, “Not me,” or something like that. The mayor said, “Will someone make a motion to accept the consent agenda?”