“It’s me,” she said. “I just wanted to thank you for helping with the move.”

“No problem. And I will fix the screen door at the cottage. I promise.”

“Good. I’ll hold you to it. Now, what’s new with the Isaac Wells case?”

“Ah, the real reason you called.”

She grinned. “You always could read me like a book.”

“Why don’t you tell me about Mr. Wells, Katie. You’re the one getting the letters.”

“Letter. Singular. No more.”

“Good. You know I don’t like you involved in that mess,” he admitted, not for the first time. “Stick with writing about the schools, and recipes and obituaries before your name is in one.”

“Very funny.”

“I’m serious, Katie. You know the police have been talking to Ray Dean and he’s bad news.”

Katie knew everything there was to know about Ray Dean, his estranged wife and their two sons.

Ray was a criminal, convicted of theft, burglary and suspected of being involved in other crimes that had never been solved. But he’d never been caught with a weapon or had anything to do with violent crimes. Nothing like kidnapping. Or murder.

“Just tell me you’ll keep me posted,” Katie nagged and heard her brother swear under his breath.

“I don’t know what good will come of it.”

“Only give my career the biggest shot in the arm of its life.”

“Didn’t I stupidly promise that if I find out anything,” he said reluctantly, “I’d let you know?”

“I believe the exact words were that you’d give me ‘an exclusive.’”

“You got it.”

“Great,” she said without a lot of enthusiasm, as time was ticking by and she was afraid this case might just end up as an unsolved mystery.

For the next few minutes they talked about the twins, their mother and Josh, then hung up. Grabbing her recorder, notepad, and purse, she flew out the door to where her father’s Jeep was parked. The rig was hot, having sat in the sun all day, and Katie made a mental note to find another vehicle. She hated being obligated to anyone, even the man who had sired her.

Katie spent the next two hours interviewing Octavia Nesbitt. With honey-gold-colored hair that was teased to stand away from her small head, oversize glasses, and a big, toothy smile, Octavia was one of Bittersweet’s leading citizens. In three-inch heels she was barely over five feet and Katie had never known her not to be dressed as if she were going to the opening of a Broadway play. At eighty, Octavia had the energy of a thirty-year-old, and she wasn’t satisfied until she’d walked Katie through her house—the old Reed estate—and had given her a guided tour of her rose garden and greenhouse.