Lindsey hurried across the street and cut through the small town park. She was almost at the restaurant when she saw the familiar, stumpy figure of Harvey Wargus striding across the parking lot ahead of her. He stopped beside a big Lincoln Town Car with commercial plates. The window in back rolled down and Harvey leaned close to talk to the occupant. Interesting.

Lindsey knew Violet had banned Harvey from coming into the theater. There was nothing she could do, however, about stopping him from buying a ticket for opening night. Lindsey studied the car. Who in Briar Creek would have a driver? There were a few New Yorkers who owned summer houses and were driven up from the city for long weekends and short vacations, but they wouldn’t be here in the off season unless it was a holiday.

No, this was someone who knew Harvey, someone who was wealthy; and with the tinted windows, Lindsey could only surmise that it was someone who didn’t want to be seen. Someone like Charlene’s father, Sterling Buchanan.

Without pausing to think it through, Lindsey crossed the parking lot and leaned into the open window beside Harvey. She wanted to get a good look at the man who had broken Violet’s heart, abandoned his daughter and now, according to Charlene, seemed to think he had a right to have it all back.

“Well, hello, Harvey,” she said. “Whatcha doing?”

Harvey jumped and banged his head on the top of the door frame.

“What? Huh?” he asked. He clapped a hand on the top of his head and rubbed the sore spot. Then he glowered at her. “What are you doing here?”

“Just being neighborly,” Lindsey answered. She didn’t look at him. Her gaze was fastened on the man in the backseat. If there was a stereotype of the narcissistic, egomaniacal corporate billionaire, Sterling Buchanan fit it to perfection.

He was dressed in a suit that probably cost as much as Lindsey made in a year. Large, square diamonds flashed at his cuffs and on his tie. His fingernails were buffed and polished, and his gray hair was cut with such precision that Lindsey wondered if his stylist had used a level to make sure it was perfect.

This was a man who was not only wealthy but clearly felt the need to let everyone else know precisely how wealthy he was. When she’d been working at Yale, Lindsey had come to know many alumni who were wealthy, and her favorites were always the ones who looked as comfortable in jeans and sweaters as they did in suits and gowns.

“How do you do, Mr. Buchanan?” she asked.

He raised his eyes in surprise. “This was a private conversation.”

“Like I said, I’m just being neighborly,” Lindsey said. “And I’m sure my dear friends will be interested to hear that you’re in town. So, are you just passing through or staying awhile?”